Absolution
by khandy30
Summary: John Porter returns fronm Afganistan and is sent to Columbia where a British Aid Worker, who has connections to both his daughter and a senior politician has been kidnapped
1. Chapter 1

Absolution

Chapter One 

**June 6th 2010 20.00hrs Arbil Northern Iraq**

It was a work of art he supposed; certainly the proprietor appeared to think so. He was treating the thick black coffee like the ambrosia of whatever God he followed. Porter really didn't care. At that moment he'd have settled for a cup of Spar's own coffee; that was how badly he needed the shot of caffeine to keep him awake. The man returned the coffee to the heat for the third and final time watching it carefully.

Just at the moment it came to the boil he transferred it to a small white cup. He placed it in front of Porter, with a glass of water to accompany it, and smiled

"You will like, no better coffee in Arbil."

"Thank you" He pushed a note across the counter to pay for the drink.

Money had been a problem over the previous weeks. He'd had to steal to eat. It was a dangerous thing to do in any society but especially in the Middle East where, if caught, the punishment was to lose a hand.

"Not many westerners get this far north. What brings you here?"

"I heard about the great coffee."

The man laughed whatever answer he'd been expecting that hadn't been it.

"You are a wise man. Enjoy and drink coffee while it is hot."

Porter nodded his thanks and took a sip. Christ, he thought no wonder they served it in such small cups. He'd never drunk such hot or strong coffee, and he'd had his share of the thick dark variety served all over the Middle East; more than a thimbleful would put a hole in the stomach. Still this level of caffeine would keep him awake; shit he'd be high for a week.

He looked around the café, with a little bit of luck in another couple of hours he'd be out of Iraq, and entering another country illegally. The only passport he'd had was back at his hotel in Afghanistan. It wasn't his name on it anyway; his name on this last op had been Tom Wallace. He sighed; that op had gone spectacularly tits up. Damn he was tired; it had taken him a month to get this far. After Collinson's death, aware that the Americans considered him armed and dangerous he'd been making his way across the Middle East through Afghanistan, Iran, and then into Iraq.

It was no coincidence that he'd chosen to make for Arbil he never left anything to chance. In a country as unsettled as Iraq this city was relatively calm. Since Saddam Hussein had been overthrown there had only been sporadic outbreaks of violence. He didn't want to be near any trouble or large numbers of coalition forces if it could be helped. The city was also close to the Turkish border, the border he hoped to cross tonight. He'd made a few contacts in the couple of days he'd been in the area and had managed to secure a lift into Turkey. His contact had said the man would come into the cafe at nine.

He took another sip of the coffee which was a little cooler now. He was attracting a fair amount of attention; other customers were giving him curious glances, but none approached. That was hardly surprising he was a big bloke not just tall but broad as well. He knew he exuded an air of danger which his unkempt appearance added to. He ran his hand across the thick dark beard. The opportunities for shaves had been few and far between in the past few weeks.

The proprietor had been right in his observation that westerners didn't normally get so far north. The man he was meeting would have no trouble spotting him. The door of the café opened and a group of young men, more locals, entered but apart from a cursory glance they paid him no particular attention. His lift wasn't with this group of boys. He was taking another sip of coffee when he saw him out of the corner of his eye. Not his lift, but a face from his past; a scarred face. As'ad, Porter would know him anywhere. He wasn't likely to forget him they shared too much history. He also couldn't ignore him, the young Iraqi boy was his only chance of absolution.

He walked across the room to the table where the boys sat. Their chatter stopped when they realised the tall stranger was making his way over to them. Porter knew the instance As'ad recognised him. Fear entered the boy's eyes and he look hastily around for a way out.

"I lay my life for your sake." Porter spoke the words quietly in Arabic. "You know those words don't you As'ad?"

The boy nodded too scared to say anything else.

"We need to talk."

The other boys tensed wondering if there was going to be trouble. One of them spoke rapidly to him, asking if everything was alright, Porter guessed. As'ad spoke to them quietly and Porter noticed the tension ease.

The young Iraqi was as out of place this far north as Porter. He was also just as much on the run. He looked at the man's eyes, and the expression was the same as the night he'd disarmed the bomb he'd been forced to wear. Trust me was what he had seen then, and it was what he saw now. Certainly those eyes were not hostile. Knowing he had nowhere to run he stood and moved away from the other boys.

Porter moved back to the counter. Not to finish the coffee would insult the proprietor and he didn't want to do that.

"How much English do you understand?" Porter asked.

"Some," the boy replied.

"Are you in trouble? Is that why you are this far North?" Porter pointed at As'ad trying to indicate he meant the boy and not himself.

"Trouble?"

"Yes, over Katie Dartmouth's escape."

"Family blame me. They will kill me if I am caught. So, when you leave me, I run."

"I'm sorry about that. I wanted to take you with us. So did Ms Dartmouth"

"Why, so you can kill me? I didn't shoot your friends."

"I know that now. I know the truth."

The boy nodded.

"Are they friends of yours?" Porter glanced at the group As'ad had come in with.

"Not really I get casual work with them. I came here because family won't look in a Kurdish area. I avoid trouble."

"As'ad I need you to come with me back to England."

"To UK. So I can be tortured?"

"No, so both our names can be cleared over what happened in Basra."

As'ad stared at the man.

"You have been looking for me?" he asked

"No, I thought you were dead. This is a serendipitous moment."

"What?"

"Fate," Porter explained. "I'm leaving Iraq tonight. You should come with me. I can protect you."

As'ad weighed his options. His choices were limited. Something about the British man's demeanour made him think that refusing to go was not an option.

"How will you get me out of Iraq?"

"Leave that to me."

*************

**June 7th 2010 05.00hrs Cyprus**

Porter finally allowed himself a sigh of relief. After several weeks of evading the Americans, he was at last on British territorial soil. Thanks to the foresight of the military or politicians, (Porter didn't know which,) in the 1960's when Cyprus was awarded independence, this small piece of land remained under British rule. He had just crossed from Cypriot soil to the Western Sovereign Base Area, a small parcel of the UK in the Middle East. As a soldier he understood the strategic importance of this base given the unrest in the area as a whole. As a man he was just bloody grateful it was there. It would have been easier for him to have made to the NATO bases in the area, but given recent events he wasn't about to trust anybody but the British.

He'd secured passages for both himself and As'ad from Turkey on a fishing boat bound for Limassol. For the boy it had proven to be a thoroughly unpleasant passage. The smell of petrol and fish combined along with the rolling waves to make the young lad violently sick. Even once off the boat his skin had remained a shade of green.

The dock was busy and Porter felt it was safer to wait until later before moving away from the coast. The hiding place behind a dumpster had been far too cramped for his tall, broad frame and his muscles had protested when he'd finally stood up, several hours after the boat had docked.

Telling As'ad to remain where he was Porter had disappeared to take a recon of the area. The dock had been quiet and he slipped into the shadows with no problem and made for the town. Heading towards crowds of people was a risk he had to take. For weeks he'd been off the map but now he had to contact the one person he'd trust with his life. Obtaining a phone that couldn't be traced to him hadn't been difficult. He'd simply walked into a bar and stolen a mobile from a tourist who'd been sampling the local vino all day. He'd had no trouble remembering the telephone number; he'd long ago decided he was a left-sided brain thinker. He liked sequences, analytical thinking, and problems. No, for him remembering numbers was never a problem.

It was strange, he hadn't expected the relief he felt at hearing her voice. He had however been prepared for her surprise and shock. It stood to reason she was a classic right- brain thinker, intuitive, creative and subjective. He smiled as he remembered her reaction to his call she had been stunned.

"Christ John where the fuck have you been?"

"Missed me Lieutenant?"

"Missed you? I thought you were dead. Six weeks John without a word."

Her voice shook slightly.

"I know, but to be honest the places I've been… well, BT decided there just wasn't the need for any call boxes."

"Fool, I repeat where have you been?"

"I have been on a scenic tour of the Middle East; Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq and Turkey."

"Turkey, is that where you are now?"

"No I took a trip across the water. I didn't trust our NATO allies."

"Cyprus - You're in Cyprus."

"Yeah, and I could do with a lift home."

"How far are you from the Akrotiri?"

"I would say about twenty Klicks."

"Ok get yourself to the base and I'll ensure you're put on the first flight out."

"I suppose you know Collinson's dead Layla?" Porter's voice became devoid of emotion.

"Yes the Americans found his body and returned it."

"Found his body? They paid Sharq to kill him and me. As you can hear, they missed with me."

"I'm pleased they did John."

"Layla I'm not coming in alone."

"What?"

"I have As'ad with me?"

"How? I mean, when?"

"It's a long story but I require safe passage for two."

Layla's mind was whirring

"Ok, John we'll talk when you get home."

"Ok, Layla… about Alex…"

"She's abroad volunteering with Oxfam remember. She thinks you're on a mission. I didn't want to worry her."

"Thanks Layla."

"John, remember Eric Clapton."

***********

**June 7th 2010 06.30 RAF Akrotiri **

He kept As'ad moving, RAF Akrotiri was now less than a klick away and like a marathon runner in the twenty-sixth mile, the knowledge that the end of the race was close provided renewed energy so he increased their pace. The sun had only been up an hour but it was already hot approaching 23 degrees caused his T-shirt to cling to his body. He'd be glad to get out of the heat. Porter slowed as a 12ft high-wire parameter fence came into sight.

"This must be it: we'll follow the fence. Stick close to me. Don't touch the fence it's probably live." Porter said.

As'ad looked puzzled

"Electric." Porter pointed at the fence "Touch it and you'll be cooked." He hissed and shook.

As'ad nodded finally understanding.

Porter estimated that they'd traveled a couple of miles when the entrance to the base came into his line of vision. The sentry post and large sign proclaiming it to be RAF Akrotiri were a most welcome sight. The lights were still blazing out from the sentry post at the gate to the base, probably on a timer. Following the parameter fence, he moved quickly towards the entrance, noting two sentries were on guard detail.

"As'ad you have to do exactly as I say and follow what I do. Make no sudden movements. Do you understand?"

As'ad nodded.

Stepping out of the shadows they approached the security barrier with their arms hung loosely at their sides in a non-threatening manner.

"Halt, place your hands behind your heads gentleman," a young guard commanded, his weapon drawn.

Porter wasn't surprised by the guard's actions they must look a right bloody sight. He moved his hands slowly up and clasped them behind his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw As'ad do the same.

"State your names and business."

"Sergeant John Porter 3448756 returning from a covert mission in Afghanistan. The boy is an asset named As'ad."

The guard relaxed slightly remembering the photo he had been shown earlier.

"Sergeant Porter, could you confirm which former member of Cream is your CO?"

Porter smiled.

"That would be Eric Clapton."

"Welcome to RAF Akrotiri, Sergeant. Your flight awaits you."

John tried to sleep, but the Hercules was not designed for comfort. The benches which lined the cavernous fuselage were hard and uncompromising, making the arse numb within half an hour of becoming airborne. With your back pressed against the wall of the aeroplane it was impossible to ignore every vibration of the four massive turbo prop engines. A lesser man might have wondered at its safety, convinced that every rattle, shake and noise spelt imminent disaster.

He looked over at As'ad wondering if the flight was disturbing him. He appeared to be a sleep. It wasn't surprising the lad had been exhausted. Not having slept for close to 72 hours. He looked so much younger in sleep; he could not be much older than Alex. He'd witnessed too much in his lifetime, far more than any child should.

Porter was chilled to the bone. After the heat of Asia and the Middle East, the dim interior of the plane was Siberian. Because he was sat against the side of the plane he was losing heat through his back. He only had the clothes he'd arrived in: a grimy T-Shirt and sleeveless safari jacket, neither of which offered any protection against the cold. The small amount of kit he'd had in the vehicle in which he'd fled Afghanistan was long gone; lost or used, as he'd avoided the American assassination squad that had pursued him.

There hadn't been time to shower or change before boarding the flight. He couldn't wait for the luxury of a really hot shower, to stand beneath the spray for as long as he liked without the fear of being attacked.

The flight they'd been put on was returning to the UK after delivering supplies in Cyprus. John liked the Hercules; this was probably a new breed of the old war horse but it was familiar enough to John to be of comfort. Many of his missions had either begun or ended in an aeroplane just like this one. His luck had held once more and he was grateful that this journey was not in a flag-draped coffin.

Boredom might have set in; the RAF budget didn't stretch to inflight entertainment and there were no attractive cabin crew serving food and beverages. However to a soldier entering or leaving the theatre of war boredom was not normally a problem. Whatever direction the Hercules was flying there would be a million thoughts and questions occupying the mind. In this respect he was no different to any other squaddie.

Looking at As'ad again, he thought resting his eyes might be a good idea even if he didn't sleep. His eyes might have been closed but he remained alert and the sound of somebody approaching him had them flying open, his body primed and ready to move if necessary. He relaxed almost immediately, seeing that it was a Flight Sergeant carrying two blankets and two mugs of tea.

"Here you go mate. It's not much but it'll warm you up a bit. It's cold enough in here to freeze the balls of a brass monkey. "

"Thanks," Porter said, accepting the tea.

The airman paused uncertain what to do with the tea for the Iraqi lad who'd come aboard with Porter.

"Leave it with me. If he doesn't wake I'll drink it."

"Sorry it's nothing stronger."

"I'm sure it sounds boring, but I'd prefer the tea anyway. It's been weeks since I had a decent cuppa."

"Or any kind of ablutions by the look of you." The airman said, as he looked Porter up and down.

"No, well where I've been, washing facilities were few and far between. It's probably not wise to get too close."

"It's not quite that bad. You look done in Sergeant. I'll wager sleep hasn't been a priority either. There's no one to disturb you up here so get some sleep. I'll wake you before we land."

The airman draped a blanket over the sleeping As'ad and placed the other next to Porter.

"Thanks I'll just finish the tea and then I'll try and sleep."

Porter watched the airman head back up towards the front of the plane, before he closed his eyes, and thought about finally going home.

**One Month earlier**

**May 6th 2010 18.00hrs Oxford United Kingdom**

The first indication that Rhiannon Phillips had that her life was about to change forever had been when she had arrived home and seen the strange car parked outside the house. She not only knew all the neighbours' cars but their families as well. She was observant; working in some of the world's most dangerous areas meant she had learned that vigilance saves lives. She was puzzled; the car was expensive and new, and looking through the window she could see it was adapted for a disabled person to drive. She didn't think her mother knew any disabled people.

She was home later than usual, and hoped her mother wasn't worrying. She had said that she was going to the polling station on the way home but voting had taken her longer than expected. The queue had been long; the election it seemed had caught the attention of the country. The Prime Ministerial debates had been a huge success and the turnout was expected to be high. Working for Oxfam as she did and having been in parts of the world where voting was rigged and democracy ignored she took the right to vote very seriously. She hadn't minded the queues, but merely smiled at the grumbling going on around her. These people should queue in the African heat to vote, knowing that it wouldn't make a difference, and then they would have cause to grumble.

It had taken less than a minute to vote and then she had headed straight home. Her mother was cooking a special going-away meal and she didn't want to be really late. It had become a tradition that the evening before she left her mother would prepare a three course dinner and give her some silly gift to take away with her. Her mother didn't want her to leave; she hadn't said as much but Rhiannon had known. It was strange that her mother's concerns were far greater this time and yet Columbia was probably less dangerous than some areas she'd been in.

It was inevitable that she was close to her mother. It had only ever been the two of them. Her mother had fallen pregnant at university and had never revealed the man's identity. Rhiannon had never wanted to know his name sensing that it would cause her mother pain. She'd been wonderful in understanding when Rhiannon had said that she wanted to work for Oxfam. It couldn't have been easy letting her daughter go.

She'd been about to enter the house when the front door opened and her mother appeared along with another woman. A woman Rhiannon recognised immediately as Katie Dartmouth TV journalist and since her kidnapping ordeal in Basra national heroine.

"Mum?" Rhiannon was puzzled.

"Oh hello love go on in tea will be ready shortly."

"But Mum what's going on?"

"Please Rhiannon just go in."

Rhiannon might be twenty-eight but she knew that tone. How did her mother still do that she wondered as she went into the house? Make her do things just by the tone of her voice.

Rose Phillips waited until her daughter had entered the house.

"I've told you you're mistaken. I don't want my daughter bothered by this. Mr Clarendon is not her father. Your source, whoever it is, is lying."

"At least warn her that when this hits the press tomorrow she's going to be hounded day and night," Katie Dartmouth said.

"The press will have to find her first and that won't be easy. Now please leave."

Katie shook her head and turned away. Having seen Rhiannon Phillips with her own eyes she was in no doubt that Simon Clarendon, leader of the conservative party and probably Britain's next Prime Minister, was her father.

Rose Phillips watched Katie Dartmouth get into her car and pull away before going to face her daughter.

As she expected Rhiannon was waiting in the living room, a million questions in her eyes.

"Why was Katie Dartmouth here?"

"Rhiannon sit down sweetheart," her mother said as she clutched at her daughter's hand and tried to guide her to the sofa.

"I don't want to sit down." She jerked her hands away. "Tell me what on earth is going on?"

"It's about your father."

"This is about my father?" Rhiannon whispered.

"Yes…please sweetheart, sit down."

"Ok I'll sit and then you have tell me about my father and why Katie Dartmouth is interested in him, whoever he is?"

"Firstly, your father doesn't know about you. He made it quite clear he wasn't looking for a serious relationship. So when I found out I was pregnant I didn't tell him."

"I know that, you told me."

"The thing is…" Rose paused aware of the enormity of what she was going to say.

"This time tomorrow, he may be the new Prime Minister."

"What?" Colour drained from Rhiannon's face.

"Your father is Simon Clarendon leader of the Conservative party…"

"Oh my God. I remember talking to you about him being at Oxford, I even asked if you knew him. You told me you never met him."

"I know I did. I probably should have told you, especially when he was elected leader of the Conservatives."

"Well you didn't and I understood when he was nobody, so I guess I should understand now and I will, just give me some time."

Rose looked worried.

"How much time sweetheart?"

"Oh, you know, twenty or thirty years…" She smiled slightly. "Mum we'll be ok, we always are."

"Really? Rose fought back the tears.

"Really. I guess that was why Miss Dartmouth was here?"

"Somebody told the press that you could be his daughter."

" Shit…well, I'll go with whatever you want to do. I'll be out of the country

by two in the morning anyway. It's you who will be dealing with all this"

"In that case, if asked, I will deny it. I have to think of him and his family. It was my decision not to tell him about you. He shouldn't pay for that."

If she'd not been leaving maybe she would have wanted to see him. As it was she'd have six months, to at least come to terms with the news.

"Ok, look, let's eat. I have a flight to catch. By the time I get back everybody will have forgotten this."

"I hope so. I'm not cut out to be in the tabloids."

"True, Page Three couldn't cope with you."

"Cheeky. I am worried about this trip though. What if somebody gets to hear of the possible link to Simon? You'd be valuable to some terrorist organisations."

"Mum I'm going to a village in Columbia I don't think they will have a copy of The Sun or The Mirror. I'll be fine."

"What time are you leaving?"

"Eleven. I have to pick up a new girl, Alex Porter. It's her first trip."

"Oh, are you her mentor, buddy or whatever name they give it these days?"

"Yes, I feel sorry for her. Her Mum died about six months ago and her Dad is in the services I think. He's abroad anyway. She's only just eighteen and this is her first time away."

"Then, I'd be a friend if I were you. After all, you're only ten years older than her." Rose smiled, with her short hair and slim figure her daughter looked a lot younger than twenty-eight.

"Yeah, a friend sounds good. We can all do with a friend. Now feed me woman while I get used to having the PM for a father."

"He hasn't won yet."

"No but he will." 


	2. Chapter 2

.

Chapter two.

The alarm cut into her light sleep. Registering that it was her phone, and not her clock, she came instantly awake. Years of responding to phone calls that had sent her all over the world at a moment's notice meant she was alert the moment she picked up her mobile.

"Katie?" The voice held a question as if the caller was unsure that he was ringing the correct number.

"John." Her response held genuine pleasure at the sound of his voice. "Where are you?"

"At the moment about 40,000 feet over Europe."

"On your way home or going away?"

"Home. Katie I am bringing a mutual friend to visit."

"A friend?"

"Yeah, a long lost friend."

"As'ad? You have As'ad with you?"

"I do, and when we land I'd like you around as a security policy."

"Security policy?"

"I work for the secret service. I don't trust anybody in the firm as far as I can throw them. I want you at Brize Norton when we land so that As'ad doesn't conveniently disappear."

"Brize Norton? Odd place to bring you into."

"We're on a Hercules which is returning after delivering supplies. Katie, a Lieutenant Layla Thompson will be at Brize Norton to meet us, she's a friend as well, but I doubt she'll be alone. Tell her a member of Eric Clapton's fan club sent you. She will know you are a friend then."

"Christ you spies and your codes; I sometimes think it is all a game."

"Well you know boys and their toys. Will you be there?"

"Yes John I will be there."

"Thanks Katie, I owe you."

"You owe me? I think not. See you at Brize Norton." She ended the call.

John Porter, she smiled softly, she owed him her life. She glanced at the stump where her left hand had once been a lasting reminder, as if she needed one, of that time in Iraq. The memory of John Porter quietly asking if he could check the wound for infection, was still fresh in her memory. He'd been so calm, gentle and reassuring. "Trust me," he'd said, and she had without question.

Time, it seemed, was no guide to the depth of friendship. They had spent just a few short hours together, during which time a bond was forged which was stronger than she had with any other friend. He'd known just what to say from the first moment she'd seen him. The boy As'ad had pulled the hood from her head; at first she had thought she was alone, but when she had drunk the small amount of water the boy offered, she'd watched as he moved to another prisoner. She hadn't been sure when he'd arrived; since they had hacked of her hand, she'd lapsed in and out of consciousness. She'd simply stared at him her eyes wide in surprise, as a million questions ran through her mind. When they were alone he'd crawled over to her. Even trussed up like a chicken there was something strong and dependable about him. He'd told her she was a good girl. It should have offended her, but it hadn't. He'd realised how traumatised she was, and had known the simple words used to sooth a child were all that she could take in. She'd clung to those words and the hope they'd offered.

Her kidnapping and those events had all been over a year ago, but it felt like yesterday. Whenever he was in town they'd meet up for a drink and dinner. They'd even been to the pictures a couple of times. It wasn't a physical relationship; on her part there was no sexual spark, and she doubted there was one on his. Did she love him? Undoubtedly, but as a friend not a lover. She'd asked him if he'd stayed in touch with any other hostages he'd rescued, thinking it odd, but he said no. With her, he'd said, it was different. Firstly she knew about As'ad; secondly her rescue had been the catalyst to his regaining his self-esteem and rebuilding his relationship with his daughter. Inevitably, on their evenings out, the conversation had turned to As'ad. Both of them had felt a tremendous guilt at leaving him behind in Iraq; now, impossible as it had sounded, John had found him.

She headed into the bathroom to shower, thinking of how important As'ad was to John. The boy owed his life to him; it seemed he made a habit of saving peoples lives. He'd learned that night in Iraq that As'ad hadn't killed two of his colleagues and badly injured another. He wasn't responsible for those deaths because he'd allowed As'ad to live. He had paid an enormous price for a mistake he hadn't made, but without As'ad he'd no proof of that. Katie had seen a lot of killing. Despite the public's perception of the Special Forces they did not kill without conscience or consequence. It seemed that at last John would receive the answers he so desperately sought.

It was understandable; to her at least, that he didn't trust the secret service. MI5, MI6 and the military intelligence service were not whiter than white. She realised that they couldn't be. A lot of what they did happened in some twilight world, where morals and ethics had different boundaries. The night of the Bratton extraction when John had let an Iraqi boy live, two British troops had died, and If As'ad were to be believed they had been shot by a British soldier. Yes, John was right to be worried for As'ad; if it suited the secret service he would just disappear.

Within thirty minutes of John's call she was on the road headed towards Oxfordshire. Traffic was light and she made good time. She slowed the car at the security barrier at the gate to RAF Brize Norton and pushed a button to lower her window.

"I'm Katie Dartmouth I have some vital intel for a Lieutenant Thompson who is meeting a flight landing here today."

The young Sergeant glanced at a clip board he held before answering.

"I have no record of Lieutenant Thompson or any flight."

"Sure you do, the base is on high alert; you may not know why that is, but you do know that several non-descript cars bearing government plates have passed through these gates tonight. Now Lieutenant Thompson was in one of those cars. Contact her and tell her that a member of the Eric Clapton fan club suggested we speak."

"There is no flight and no Lieutenant Thompson."

"Ok have it your way. I will just put a call into REUTERS and explain that a British soldier is returning with an informant, who has information about an incident in the middle east that will rock the government and armed forces. Once I do, it will make every news bulletin around the world."

The Sergeant clicked on his radio.

"Remember Mr Clapton, it is how she will know I'm genuine. Also a trusted friend knows to ring REUTERS if I don't call within the next thirty minutes, just in case you are planning to detain me."

Lieutenant Thompson had her back to the door and was looking out of the window when Katie Dartmouth was shown into the room. She turned and looked the journalist over her eyes resting on the prosthetic hand she wore. It provided an instant reminder of how they had met.

"Miss Dartmouth I'd no idea you were still in touch with John Porter."

"Yes he visited me in hospital on my return to this country and we meet up when we are both in town."

Layla smiled wryly.

"Does that amuse you?" Katie asked.

"No not at all, I was just wondering what it is about John Porter that draws women to him like a moth to a flame?"

"Does he? I would have thought given the nature of his work, the opposite would be true."

"I won't pretend you don't know what it is he does, because for obvious reason you do. I guess the thing that should make him vulnerable is what makes him outstanding at his job and compelling to us women."

"And that is?"

"His compassion. He should be cold and analytical and he is when it is needed. But he also shows immense compassion, and at times it has almost been fatal for him. Women see that in him."

"Yes you are right. He is not the killing machine the SAS are supposed to be."

"So, John contacted you Miss Dartmouth?"

"He did, he needs a security policy. You see I know about As'ad and the deaths of the British troops during the Bratton extraction. I know As'ad didn't kill them. I know they were killed by a British officer. Process of elimination and talking to John leads me to think that officer had to be Hugh Collinson. Collinson is dead, so As'ad is John's only hope of clearing his name."

"Well, not quite I have a dossier that confirms the bullet retrieved from the injured man came from a British gun… the gun that Collinson was carrying. I won't let this rest. John lost everything that night. There is to be an internal enquiry. I'm not sure what will be made public but John's name will be cleared."

"Yes, well Lieutenant Thompson I'm here to see that happens, and to protect As'ad. He's as much a victim as John is."

As'ad looked at the man opposite him; he appeared to be asleep but somehow As'ad doubted he was. In Iraq he'd been alert at all times. He knew his name now, Porter. A man trained to kill, who'd spared his life twice. He didn't understand why he had done this; all his life he'd been brought up to believe that the kafir would kill all Muslims and yet this man hadn't. Why? As'ad had never killed anybody himself; but he'd witnessed much bloodshed. Men, women and children killed by people like his uncle and Porter. No, not like Porter, he hadn't just killed, but other Westerners did. No one was innocent, not even the children, he thought.

The night they'd strapped the bomb to him seven years ago, the other children, who were his friends, had told him they'd have been proud to wear it, and how Allah would be pleased with him. Only, he hadn't been proud, he'd been scared. When it had come to it, he had stood and shook as the guns had opened fire. He'd been terrified until this man, this Porter, had disarmed the bomb. His English hadn't been very good then, but somehow he'd read in Porter's eyes that he should trust him, and he had.

After the kidnapping of Katie Dartmouth had gone so wrong, he'd been lucky to get away. He'd been shocked when Porter and Katie had left him there. Anger had surged through him. How could they just leave him? He'd helped them. Why had they left him? Thinking quickly, he'd lied to the two men Porter had not managed to kill and said that Porter had forced him to leave with him at gun point. They had seemed suspicious at first, but then he'd pointed out that the Kafir had killed his uncle, why would he have gone willingly with him? He'd asked them. They had believed him and the three of them had returned to the safe house.

They'd sat around that night talking and planning revenge for the death of Al Neseri. It had made him feel sick to his stomach listening to them. Al Neseri death would be avenged with an attack on some British soldiers and As'ad wanted no part in it. He wasn't even sure anymore what they were fighting for. All he knew was he had already lost too much. His parents and brothers were dead and he'd lost his childhood; as far as he could see the bloodshed solved nothing. He had no intention of giving any more. He'd disappeared that night putting as much distance between himself and his uncle's followers.

He never stayed put for very long; every time he heard rumours that the Sword of Islam was in an area he moved on. He'd ended up in the far north, and he'd thought he'd be safe. But the day he met Porter, he'd heard the name mentioned again at local Mosque. That was the real reason he'd gone with the British soldier, to save his own skin. The Sword of Islam were not a group from which a person just walked away. He praised Allah that Porter had been there in the cafe. He'd said he hadn't been looking for him that it was just luck that he was in the café. Well whatever it was, he was grateful. The English man was his ticket out of Iraq.

"You ok As'ad?" Porter's voice cut into his thoughts.

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"You were doing some deep thinking."

"I knew you did not sleep. You are watching all the time."

"Yeah well in my job that's important. What were you thinking about?"

"Why you did not kill me years ago? It makes no sense."

"No it made no sense to my unit either. Not killing you cost me everything: my marriage, family, home, job, and, three friends, I thought. I have gone over that night so many times, wondering if I would do things differently. The answer is no. You were a child, a frightened boy. I've a daughter your age. Everything about you that night made me think that you'd not volunteered for the job. Am I wrong?"

"No you are not wrong, I was chosen. I kept thinking I should be proud, but I wasn't, I was scared. Then you came and I thought it was over. I kept waiting for you to pull the trigger but you didn't. Your hand was so steady, like a rock, when you snipped the wire. Your eyes were so calm. I remember thinking why is this man not excited? Everybody I knew would have been excited to be carrying a gun."

"Easiest way to get shot is being overexcited. We'll be landing soon. I'll not leave you alone down there. I told Miss Dartmouth to be there. She'll help to guarantee your safety."

"Why would she do that after what my Uncle did?"

"I told you she hated leaving you behind in Iraq. She knew you were no killer As'ad. She'll want to help. Best hold on we're coming into land."

Major Chris Pemberton hated to be out-manoeuvred, but that was what Lieutenant Thompson and Sergeant Porter had done. Porter… it was uncomfortable having to look at the man. If the young Iraqi man confirmed the reports in the dossier that Layla had given him, then Porter had been the victim of a miscarriage of justice seven years ago. He'd been Porter's commanding officer at the time of the Bratton extraction and he'd had no hesitation in selecting him to lead the mission. He was a good soldier. His face was grim as he remembered that night, and the mission that had gone spectacularly tits up. The public saw it as a success, but for the unit it had been a disaster; he'd lost three good men, four if you counted Porter. He'd accepted Porter's resignation and watched as the man's life unravelled.

He'd been around when Collinson had reactivated him and it had been no surprise to him when Porter had managed to free Katie Dartmouth; he'd always been a good operative, a good soldier. But what now? Porter had lost everything and it seemed that the man responsible for that was now dead. He looked at Porter again. What do you want to happen now? he wondered. He rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes. Shit what a mess.

He moved slowly towards Porter; as he was stood with Layla, Katie Dartmouth and the lad As'ad. They looked together like a tight little unit. God it made him feel like a complete outsider, which was not surprising really. He was an outsider. He'd been asked to take over as the head of Section Twenty when Collinson had been killed. It wasn't the first time he'd started a new job because somebody had died, and it probably wouldn't be the last. No matter how many times it happened it never got easier.

"Sergeant Porter." It was amazing; tired, dirty and dishevelled as he was, Porter turned sharply and snapped to attention at his words.

"Major Pemberton Sir." John was puzzled at his old CO's presence.

"At ease John. Obviously Layla hasn't told you that I'm the new head of Section Twenty."

John glanced over his shoulder,

"No Sir, she hasn't, but then we haven't had much time to talk."

"Well you look done in and so does the lad. We should get him to the safe house Layla has arranged. You needn't have involved Ms Dartmouth John. You can trust me to do what is right."

"Yeah? Well, at the time I didn't know you were my new be truthful with you, for the past eight years the only person I could trust was, well… me. Katie has an interest in the boy's welfare. I figured if she were here the boy would have some protection."

"John… about eight years ago, there's to be an enquiry. I'm certain you'll be completely exonerated, but that doesn't give you back those eight years."

"No it doesn't, but I spoke with Hugh before he was killed. I have closure now. It's time to move on."

"You were with Collinson when he died?"

"Not exactly; we came under attack and he was badly injured. He insisted I get out while I still could. He died allowing me to get away it was an act of supreme bravery."

"Ok John we'll talk again at the enquiry. I think we should move off."

"Sir, there is one more thing." He held a memory stick. "I presumed Layla briefed you on my latest mission, to extract Gerald Baxter?"

"Aye she did."

"Well this proves that the Americans were planning to deal with Sharq. It's why there is a shoot to kill order out on me. Talk to Langley or the folk in Grosvenor Square and get it lifted. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder all of the time."

Pemberton took the memory stick.

"Ok. Thanks John… and welcome back." He nodded to the two agents who were stood at the door.

"Take Mr Al Neseri to his temporary home. Miss Dartmouth you have my word that nothing will happen to the boy."

"I've given As'ad a mobile phone. I'll be checking that he is ok later. If he doesn't answer then I will go public with the true story of what happened during the Bratton Extraction. You see,"Katie looked at the name badge which hung from Chris Pemberton's pocket. "Major Pemberton, you're going to have to earn my trust."

A smile slid across John's face.

"I see now why you involved Miss Dartmouth. Nothing will happen to him."

As As'ad passed him, John reached out and touched his shoulder."

"I'll see you tomorrow ok?"

"Ok, shukran Mr Porter, shukran."

"Ahlan Wa Sahlan, As'ad." He turned and spoke to Katie. "I'll call you tomorrow, we'll have lunch?"

"That would be lovely, John."

Pemberton waited until As'ad and Katie had left before he spoke.

"A word before you both head off. If either of you pull a stunt like this again you'll be signing on at the job centre quicker than you can call me a Scottish bastard. We are a team and as such we have to trust each other. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Sir," John answered sharply.

"Yes Sir," Layla responded quietly.

"Good now get home and get some sleep. I'll see you both tomorrow."

"He's right you look done in John. You best get home."

"Thanks Layla for everything."

"Don't mention it. John…" Layla paused, unsure how to continue. "About Danni… she's left Section Twenty."


	3. Chapter 3

I want to thank the the Beta Bells as I call my band of girls. This story is a little bit of a slow burner because I wanted to tie up some loose ends and I also wanted to make the Alex character a little more easy to understand.

Comments welcome as ever.

Chapter 3  
There were certain things that John neither took for granted nor did not enjoy when he returned from being away. Working as he did in the more remote parts of the world, he never used the term 'third world;' he had quickly learned it was the basics that counted. Water, he thought, was the most important natural resource in the world and yet so many of the places where he was sent had no clean water. One of the greatest pleasures he had on returning to England was drinking a glass of ice cold water straight from the tap, free from the lukewarm chemical taste of the purifying tablets that were an essential part of keeping a soldier healthy. He was already on his third glass; funny, there was a time when he rarely drank water, preferring Vodka. He wasn't sure if he'd drunk to forget what had happened in Iraq or to help him get through what his life had become. Had he been an alcoholic? Not quite, but he had certainly drunk way more than the government recommended. Katie's kidnapping had changed that; now, given As'ad's presence in the UK and Hugh Collinson's death, he had come full circle.

The rhythmic patter of water running reminded him that he had switched the shower on. Finishing his water, he walked through to the shower room, a space so small it contravened the trade subscription act. Room, he thought wryly; a cupboard would be more apt. Pausing to peel off his clothes, he stepped beneath the steaming spray. Hot water was another luxury he had learned to go without when he was away. As the jets of hot water cascaded down over him, washing away the weeks of ground-in sand, dirt, and sweat, he felt the tension slip from his shoulders. Glancing down at his battle-scared body ,he realised on his latest mission he had sustained no new injury. Grabbing the shampoo before the temperamental shower decided to change the temperature of its own accord to cold, he scrubbed his dark hair. It was not just his personal hygiene that needed attention, he thought; he was well overdue for a haircut. After years of looking like a scarecrow, he had started to take a lot more pride in his appearance. The humiliation of discovering that his first time with Danni had been because the service felt he had low esteem, and—how had Layla put it?—"needed to have a shag" had awoken him, and he had cleaned up his appearance, bought some new clothes, shaved regularly, and, most importantly, got a decent haircut.

Danni. He admitted he was a little puzzled, as well as miffed, as to why she had asked for a transfer. After their less than auspicious start, he'd felt that they had something good going. Was it him or the job she wanted to get away from? He'd asked Layla what had been behind the transfer request, but she had not been very forthcoming. Maybe later he'd get the answers to the questions he had. Surprisingly Danni had answered his phone call and agreed to meet him.

The call to Danni wasn't the only one he'd made; his first thought had been to let Alex know he was home and safe. Disappointment warred with pride as he admitted he had missed his daughter. Her decision to spend her gap year working for an Oxfam had taken him by surprise; stunned him, in fact. Since her mother's death, she had been adrift, so deciding to work for Oxfam had come out of the blue. She sounded so good when he spoke to her, alive and vital; her enthusiasm for what she was doing had been infectious. The only thing that worried him was where she was: Columbia. He sighed; he supposed there were more troubled areas to which she could have been sent. He knew there was a time when a parent had to let a child go, but it felt like he had only just found her. He'd made so many mistakes with Alex over the years. Too many times he had not been there for her. He knew he wasn't entirely to blame; his wife, Diane, had played her part as well, but he should, and could, have insisted on more contact with his daughter. Glancing around at the grotty bed sit, he made a decision. This had to change as well; the place was a dump and he no longer needed to live here. He could afford something better, somewhere he could call home, a place to which Alex could return. Maybe now the pair of them could start with a clean slate. The enquiry would set the record straight and then maybe he would once again be the hero he'd once been to his daughter. He smiled wryly; that was an unrealistic aspiration. Alex wasn't a little girl with rose-coloured spectacles about her own action man soldier Daddy. She was a beautiful, sassy young lady who was well aware of his failings. All the same, things between them seemed to be improving and he prayed nothing would jeopardise the progress they had made since Diane's death.

The bar where he was meeting Danni was only short walk away from his bed sit and he was there in a matter of minutes. Danni arrived a few minutes after he did.

He smiled at the admiring glances she received as she made her way over to him. If she was aware of the attention she was receiving, she gave no indication. With her exotic good looks, he suspected it was something to which she was accustomed.

He stood as she approached and she greeted him with a smile, hug, and brief kiss on the cheek. Did she pull away quicker than she had in the past, John wondered? He searched her face for any clue as to her feelings, but her expression was guarded.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Yeah, that would be lovely—a Southern Comfort lime and lemonade please," she replied.

He walked to the bar and ordered her drink and a sparkling water for himself. When he turned and headed back, he realised she was staring at him intently.

"Here you go," he offered.

"Thanks. I see you're still just having water," she said, nodding at the glass. "You can't have been back long?"

"No, not long. I got in this afternoon."

"I wonder if you have any idea how relieved I was when you called?" she asked.

"Really, you surprise me, seeing as how in the time I've been away you've asked for a transfer out of Section Twenty. That's a strange way to show me that you care." The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Pain flared briefly in Danni's eyes.

"Sorry, that was uncalled for," he added quickly. "It's just that after weeks of dodging the Americans and watching Collinson die, I was looking forward to seeing you. My ego was a little bruised when I realised that you could walk away from me so easily."

"It wasn't easy, actually." Danni's tone was cold, which John reasoned was nothing more than he deserved.

"No?" he questioned softly.

"No. If anything, it was the hardest thing I've ever done." She reached over and touched his cheek. "When we realised that the Americans were denying picking you up, it was obvious you were in big trouble. The relief of you escaping was short lived. When the Americans claimed to have found the bodies of both Baxter and Collinson, it seemed certain you were dead as well. Layla sent me home that day… not surprising, really. I wasn't fit for work. I think she realised then how close we'd become. I sat at home in the dark and drank three quarters of a bottle of Vodka while I wept for you. That was the first time I have ever cried over a man."

John looked at her intently; she was nowhere near as tough as she pretended to be.

"I returned to work the next day. We were working on a case involving a Major who was thought to be supplying information to the Taliban. I spent a day allowing this man to paw me, leading him on and feeding his ego to get information. We didn't have sex, but if it had been necessary we would have. For the first time, when I went home I felt dirty. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. I felt as if I'd cheated on you. Worse than that, I'd cheated myself. It occurred to me that what I had become was a prostitute, a sex worker for Her Majesty's Government. And suddenly I realised I'm worth more than that, John. I didn't sleep that night, but by the morning I had made up my mind. I formally asked for a transfer and told my superior that I would no longer work honey traps."

"Why a transfer? You could have just said that you would not play the honey trap role anymore, couldn't you?"

"I could have, but everybody at Section Twenty knows what I was…what I did…"

"We all knew that you were…are an excellent soldier, doing her job."

"Don't be naïve, John. I know what people thought of what I did. It would not have been possible to just stop being available at Twenty."

John sighed as a small smile of relief flickered over his face.

"So, this transfer was a work issue, not anything to do with me? We can still be together, can't we?" He reached for her hand.

"I'm sorry, John, as much as I want to do that, I can't." She rushed on before he could speak. "It would always be there between us, how we met and how I 'serviced you', as you put it."

"Surely you don't think that means anything to me anymore. We've moved on, haven't we?"

"You say that it means nothing to you, John, and perhaps it doesn't. Maybe you can forget it. The thing is, I can't. It will always be there, a reminder of my past. I'm not Julia Roberts and you are not Richard Gere. Pretty Woman was just a movie; there will be no happily ever after. I know that the relationship will almost certainly fail at some point because of how we met. Far better it ends now, before I fall in love with you and give you the power to really hurt me."

"I would never…" his voice trailed off.

"Hurt me? Not intentionally, I know that, but you do have the power to hurt me. Can you honestly tell me you wouldn't wonder when some man gave me the eye if I had slept with him as part of my job? I couldn't bear to see any doubt in your eyes. Like I said, my time with you has convinced me that I am worth more."

John regarded Danni closely. Was what she was saying true? Would her past always be a barrier between them? He wasn't certain, but as she had spoken, he realised that his feelings could not be as deep as hers. If they had been, he would have destroyed her arguments. He'd enjoyed what they had, but he wasn't in love with her, or even in danger of falling in love.

"You see, I'm right. I can see it in your eyes."

"That doesn't mean I won't miss you." He reached over and touched her cheek. "It has been a lot of fun. I'm not sure that you are right about my having doubts about you; you are bright and intelligent; don't ever let them tell you differently."

"I won't. God, I am glad you are safe."

"Yeah, I'm like Captain Scarlet, indestructible. So, as a pal, can I take you out to dinner?"

"That would be lovely."

*********  
They'd eaten close by. One of the pleasures of living in London was the variety and quantity of places to eat. Danni had let him choose and inevitably, after weeks away from the UK, he'd chosen traditional English food. While they ate, they had spent the time talking about everything and nothing. It had been a pleasant evening, different from the time they had spent together before. When he kissed her goodnight, inhaling her expensive perfume, he'd been surprised that there had been no sexual pull. Danni had been right; their sexual relationship had run its course. He'd watched until her taxi disappeared out of sight and then headed down to the embankment. That was where he was now stood, gazing out over the river. After weeks of barren, seemingly deserted landscapes, the city seemed loud and noisy even at night.

He knew the embankment area well. He had spent many nights stood as he was now, staring out over the river. Endless nights, plagued by dreams of the Bratton extraction, he had been unable to sleep. During these nights, he had planned what he would do to avenge the deaths of his fallen comrades. It was strange that what he planned bore no resemblance to what had actually happened. He hadn't been lying when he'd said to Chris Pemberton that he had closure. He had, and it was now time to move on. He turned and headed back to his bedsit, tiredness creeping over him. He wanted nothing more at that moment than a decent night's sleep.

*******

Alex Porter looked at the small amount of water in the bowl and laughed. Who'd have thought that she would have been content to have a sponge wash in half a bowl of tepid water? Lord, at home she'd stayed under the shower for half an hour at a time and it had taken a further hour to do her make-up and hair. There was no electricity for her to plug in her hair drier or straighteners, and she hadn't put make- up on since she had arrived.

She looked around the room; the best way to describe it was primitive. The only furniture was a small, narrow wooden bed. The bowl, which she had filled with her ration of washing water, was chipped and stood on a scarred wooden table. Her few clothes were hung from two hooks on the walls. Next to her bed was small rickety chest of drawers, and directly above the pillow on her bed was the only a decoration on the wall: a small simple wooden cross, a visual reminder that Columbia was very much a Christian country.

She'd been glad that Rhiannon had advised her not to remove it, cautioning her that if she did, it would offend the people who ran the mission. Without this advice, she certainly would have taken it down. She glanced at the cross; it was strange how the simple symbol unnerved her. She didn't believe in God; too many bad things had happened in her life for to her have faith in a being that she could neither see or touch. But the cross seemed to taunt her, making her question that belief.

She took the hard cake of soap and tried to create a lather, a futile task but she still tried and used the small cloth to scrub her body. If there was one thing she was really struggling to come to terms with, it was the humidity. It seemed as if she was constantly soaked in perspiration. She reached for the bottle of water on the drawers, remembering Rhiannon's wise words about drinking enough fluids. She wrinkled her nose in distaste; even after a month here, she didn't like the taste of the purifying tablets.

The primitive surroundings had given her a new insight into the type of environment in which her Dad worked. It was strange that, separated as they were by thousands of miles, she felt closer to him now than she had growing up. That wasn't quite true; as a young girl, she'd idolised him. He had been her own personal 'action man' daddy, tall and strong and heroic. But when she had been ten, the bottom had fallen out of her world and she had discovered that her heroic Dad had feet of clay. It had been obvious to even her, young as she had been, that when he'd returned from abroad, something was wrong. He'd been injured and had to resign from the army, but the injury hadn't seemed that bad. She'd been certain that there was more to why he'd resigned than either him or her mother had told her. What exactly she hadn't known; grown-ups never confided in children. Alex sighed; adults thought that they were so clever and sensible, but they weren't. The sensible thing would have been to explain matters properly to the frightened, confused child she had been. But they hadn't, and anger and resentment towards her Dad had developed within her. If she ever had kids, she vowed, she would never keep them in the dark.

The day her mum had taken her to her grandparents had been the worse day in her life up to that point. Her Dad had held her just a little too tight as if he already knew what was supposed to be a temporary move would become permanent. She'd watched him out of the back of the car as they had driven away. She had seen her big, strong, fearless Dad, collapse to his knees as the car turned the corner. He had never come to fetch them; within a year, her Dad and her mum had divorced. To Alex, it had felt as though her Dad had abandoned not just her Mum but her as well.

It was years later that she discovered, quite by accident, that three men had died on that mission, and that her Dad was in some way to blame. By then, they were barely speaking and this discovery had damaged their relationship even further.

In the last year, and especially since her mother's death, there had been, if not a complete reconciliation, then a guarded truce. She'd been relieved to hear from him earlier that day. She'd been putting on a brave face since her Uncle Hugh's death. She'd had no idea where he'd been and, despite Lieutenant Thompson saying he was on a mission, secretly she had been thinking her Dad must have been dead as well. Just hearing his voice had caused tears to spring to her eyes. Despite everything, she loved him. Blood, it seemed, was thicker than water. They chatted for about ten minutes until the signal was lost.

A knock at her door brought her out of her thoughts. Knowing it must be Rhiannon, she called for her to come in.

"You ok? Since you told me that you'd left this number with your Dad's boss, I take it the call was about your Dad."

"Not about my Dad, it was from my Dad. He's back home and safe." It was as if saying the words out loud brought home how worried she had been because the next thing she knew, she was sobbing her heart out on Rhiannon's shoulder.

Rhiannon put her arms around Alex. Like most young girls, she was reed slim which added to her fragility. It was strange; from what she could gather, Sergeant Porter hadn't been a good Dad. He had been absent a great deal of the time, and when he was in the country had little time for his daughter. Yet, here was Alex breaking her heart because of the love she obviously had for him.

Rhiannon found herself relating to that in a way that a month ago she couldn't have. She had a father now and although she hadn't even met him, she only had to hear his name and a strange feeling hit her. If it was not love, it was certainly affection. No, she mused, it seemed that fathers actually didn't have to do anything for daughters to feel the implications of their existence.


	4. Chapter 4

No idea why but this was a nightmare to write. Thanks to my beta readers

Chapter Four

Hereford was just a small city nestled on the border between England and Wales. Even the river Wye that meandered through the centre was far from a major waterway. In days gone by, the city had been of strategic importance in battles and skirmishes with the Welsh, but now it was a quiet place, the administrative centre of a horticultural county where land was important. Agriculture was the mainstay of the economy. The land was important to the army as well; the mountains and wild countryside had been deemed perfect for a training centre for the SAS.

It was strange that such a small, quiet place should have been so important in his life. From the moment he had joined the army, his ambition had been to make it to Hereford, to be one of the elite. He had known how hard it would be; many young men wanted to be selected for the SAS, but very few were chosen. He'd dedicated his life to achieving his ambition. His pursuit of this goal had at times been all consuming, so that nothing else had mattered. He'd just pushed upwards and onwards. In progress reports, his commanding officers had noted how driven and single minded he was. The physical training regime he embarked upon was matched by the punishing intellectual schedule he set for himself; a torch would often burn long into the night as he studied. His hard work had paid off, and he had been selected to join SAS 22 Battalion.

He smiled at the remembrance; Christ, how had he celebrated the day he got the news. The hangover had lasted days. Diane had been less pleased; she'd not said anything but he had known—it had been there in her eyes. The regular army was bad enough for wives and girlfriends, but special services was far worse. Besides the compulsory secrecy, there was the certain knowledge of how dangerous every mission would be.  
His first years with the regiment had been tough, but rewarding; he'd continued to impress not just his superiors but his peers as well.

John sighed and thought that in one night it had all gone horribly wrong, and everything he had worked for had vanished like a puff of smoke. It had taken less than fifteen minutes with his Commanding Officer for his dream to be destroyed. Now, he'd come full circle. He was standing in front of Headquarters just as he had then, wearing his number twos, beret on top of his neatly cut and combed hair. Had he been as nervous that day eight years ago? He thought not; back then, he had known what the outcome would be and although he had been sick to his stomach, he had not been nervous. Now he was. His hand went to the knot of his tie to loosen it slightly. He was a man used to working in camouflage or casual civvies; the tie and collar seemed constricting.

"John?" He turned at the sound of his name, a smile on his lips. Layla Thompson stood with a concerned look on her face.

"Lieutenant Thompson. You scrub up well," he said, taking in that she was also wearing her number twos.

"As do you Sergeant Porter, but I thought we had moved beyond formality and rank."

"Aye, we have. It's just I have never seen you in your number twos before. You look formidable, every inch the competent officer."

"Whereas, Sergeant, you seem somehow constrained by your uniform; less in control and less dangerous. Are you okay, John? You seemed miles away. I had to say your name twice before you heard me."

"Yeah, sorry I'm not normally so rude. I was just thinking how many memories I have of this place; how intertwined my life is with it. Take you and me, Layla. We have history here."

Layla smiled wryly. "When I accompanied you here to oversee getting you back into shape, I thought you were a tosser, or worse, a complete screw up, and that we were completely mad to allow you back," she said.  
"Aye, it was a far from auspicious start. You were so bloody disapproving of everything I said and did. You fairly bristled with indignation. You brought out my worst side, that's for sure," he said, thinking back to his R for Romeo comment.

"And then you made me eat my words." Layla shook her head. "You were amazing in Basra. Katie Dartmouth owes her life to you."

"You've been amazing as well. I'd not be back here today if it had not been for you, Layla. Thank you. You've become a good friend."

"Bloody hell, we are getting too sentimental. Next thing you'll be giving me a hug. Shall we go in, Sergeant Porter?"

The time moved slowly, so that he intermittently paced the corridor, his footsteps echoing sharply on the Minton tiled floor. Layla had been called in early and he'd not seen her since, not that he had expected to. As'ad had been there as well. The boy had looked terrified; John would have liked to have spoken to him to give him a few words of advice, but that wasn't possible. All he could do was give an encouraging smile. Then he was whisked away through the oak panelled door. There must be another way out of the room for nobody came back out.

Periodically, other army personal would pass along the corridor and enter one of the other rooms, accompanied by the slam of the heavy oak doors echoing in the silence of the corridor. They didn't acknowledge Porter; he was just a stranger. Once he'd have been a comrade, but now he was just a nameless face in a uniform. He wasn't a member of the unit as such; he worked for Section Twenty.

A clerk sat at a desk at one end of the corridor. Every now and then he glanced sympathetically towards the tall soldier. How many men had he seen over the years waiting to discover their fate? John wondered, pacing the corridor just as he was now.

John glanced at his watch for what seemed like the thousandth time. Time was moving so slowly. On an op, such inactivity would not have bothered him, but here it threatened to consume him. The corridor was oppressive, so that he failed to notice the beauty of the sun streaming through the leaded windows, scattering jewel lights over the oak panelled wall.

The loud buzz of the intercom on the clerk's desk pierced the silence. John paused midway up the corridor before turning slowly. Was this finally it? The clerk's smile confirmed it was even before he spoke.

"They are ready for you now, Sergeant Porter."

It was an inherent reaction, he supposed, that despite not having been regular army for several years, he stood straighter at the clerk's words, pulling his shoulders back before he marched sharply to the door. It might be possible to take the man out of the soldier, but not the soldier out of the man. Pausing to adjust the knot of his tie, he rapped at the door firmly. A muffled voice commanded him to enter and with a final brief glance at the clerk he opened the door and went in.

Like the corridor, this room was panelled. The scent of beeswax teased John's sense of smell; not a speck of dust marred the patina of the dark wood. His footsteps made no sound as he walked across the room; in here, unlike the corridor outside, there was a carpet beneath his feet of the finest wool. The pile was so deep he sank slightly as he walked. At the opposite end of the room, three men were seated behind a mahogany table. John stopped half a meter away from it. Assessing people and situations quickly was how he stayed alive and here was no different. In less than a heartbeat, he placed names to the faces opposite him. The bigwigs were out in full today.

Major Pemberton was sat on the left. His was a face John had expected to see, since he'd been his commanding officer at the time of the Bratton extraction. On the right was a man he knew by sight from Section Twenty, although they had never spoken. Sir James Middleton worked for the foreign office and was the liaison officer between Section Twenty and the government. In the centre, John's eyes met and held those of General Sir Peter Thornton, Commander in Chief of the Special Forces in Great Britain. Recognising him and respecting the authority of his rank, John snapped quickly to attention and saluted sharply.

"Stand at ease, Sergeant Porter," the General spoke with quiet authority, his head inclined slightly as he studied the man in front of him. John adopted the position, feet splayed and hands behind his back.

"Hat off, Sergeant," the General ordered.

Not for the first time that day, John felt a sense of deja vu wash over him. He glanced briefly at Pemberton. Did he remember saying those words at another hearing? His hands moved to his head and he removed his beret.

"Please have a seat." The General gestured toward a chair.

A short silence followed John taking his seat, as if the General was considering his words carefully.

"I am not going to beat around the bush, Sergeant Porter. This affair has not been one of the finest moments in the Unit's history. It has always been believed that your actions during the Bratton extraction caused the deaths of three British soldiers. Your decision to disarm instead of kill the boy As'ad was always seen as a serious error in judgement. Is that how you view your actions that night, Sergeant?"

John looked at the General intently. "Sir, there is not a day that passes that I do not replay that night or mourn for my colleagues. Keith Finn, Mike Reilly, and Stephen Andrews…" Emotion burned at his throat and he swallowed the lump that had formed there. "They were all good men, good soldiers… the best. I was the company commander and as such I did and still do accept responsibility for their deaths. There were things I should have done differently. I should have sent Major Collinson to get Bratton back to the helicopter; he had little combat experience. But…" He paused and looked at each man in turn. "You asked if I regret not killing As'ad. No, Sir, I do not. I cannot. He was just a scared child, a pawn in a grown up's game. My training should have made me more than just a killing machine. If not, Sir, then I am no better than the terrorists I fight. That is what I have struggled to come to terms with. I was so certain I was not wrong about the boy and yet Keith, Mike, and Steve were all shot by him according to Major Collinson."

"Yes, we will come to Major Collinson in a moment. Under the terms of the Geneva Convention, your actions were the correct ones. This As'ad was just a boy and British service men are certainly not encouraged to kill children in cold blood. Had your actions been made public at the time, you would have become the darling of the liberal press. What made you suspect that Major Collinson's-or Captain Collinson, as he was then-version of events was not accurate?"

"It was during the Katie Dartmouth extraction. The boy As'ad was one of the people holding her captive. I was struck again by how he did not seem like some enthusiastic Zealot. When they beat Ms. Dartmouth, he seemed to cower he did not kill me even though he had every opportunity. He just couldn't pull the trigger; he was not a killer, you see. I was going to kill him, but he started talking and Miss Dartmouth told me that he was claiming he hadn't killed Keith or Mike. He claimed that it was a British soldier who had fired on them. Major Collinson's refusal to extract him with Miss Dartmouth set alarm bells ringing."

"Lieutenant Thompson's investigation and the boy As'ad's testimony have both confirmed that Major Collinson was responsible for the deaths of those British servicemen."

"Yes sir, I know. Major Collinson told me just before he died."  
"Can you elaborate on your last statement?"

"I confronted him about that night in Basra. I told him that I knew that the bullet in Steve's brain was from the gun I had given him. At first he denied it, but then he told me what happened. It was an accident, Sir. Collinson panicked in the confusion of the fire fight that was going on. He wasn't trained in front line combat and opened fire on our own men."

"Like I said, Sergeant Porter, the whole affair was a damnable mess. However, although it is possible to understand how in the heat of battle something like this can happen, his actions in blaming As'ad and allowing you to take the blame for the incident are contemptuous. I have to inform you, Sergeant Porter, that it is the finding of this tribunal that your actions on the night off the Bratton extraction had no bearing on the deaths of Corporals Finn, Reilly, and Andrews."

At the General's words, a wave of emotion washed over John. Every nerve ending seemed charged. It was strange; for years, he'd had waited to hear those words, wanting to be released from the burden of guilt he felt over the deaths of his colleagues. Now he was finding it hard to take in. His mouth grew suddenly dry and he wished he could loosen his tie. He had expected to feel jubilation, but what he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief.

General Thornton looked at the man standing opposite him. Although his eyes burned with a fierce intensity, his shoulders had sagged slightly and his skin had paled. The way he was moistening his lips indicated his mouth had dried. He reached across and poured some water into a glass and held it out to the younger man.

"Here, have some water. I imagine it is all a little overwhelming."

"Yes, Sir," John said as he accepted the glass.

"The difficult thing is, how do we handle this?"

John smiled wryly, what you mean is, how do we spin it, he thought.  
"However we do this, you will receive a compensation settlement for your loss of earnings."

"I'm not really interested in the money, Sir, but…" John paused.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"About Major Collinson… however you spin this, don't shame him now. It would serve no purpose. He led a blameless life after Basra; he was a good father and husband, and a well thought of officer. He also died saving my life. Let his family keep their hero."

"That is very magnanimous of you, but I'm not sure I understand."  
"No, it must seem odd, I know. For so long, I wanted revenge, first on As'ad and then on Collinson. But when he confessed, I realised that he had suffered as well. I made my peace with it I promised him it would remain between us. And then when he was shot, he realised we couldn't both make it so he ordered me to leave and he stayed to give me covering fire. Whatever his past deeds, that was an act of outstanding bravery."

The General looked at the other men sat with him.

"We will consider your opinions, Sergeant. You may leave now. Somebody will be in touch regarding the compensation. If you leave through that door, I believe your friends are waiting."  
John stood and once more saluted sharply before turning crisply and marching away.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five.

San Paulo. Colombia.

Rhiannon watched as the Landrover disappeared out of sight. Even this early it was hot and humid and having spent the last hour loading the Landrover with medical supplies her shirt was already stuck to her skin. The medical team was heading into a neighbouring village to help run a local clinic leaving just her and Alex in San Paulo. She turned and headed towards the school and some protection from the heat and humidity.

The village was typical of many in the area made up of simple single storey structures with thatch styled roofs. Only the church and school had tiled roofs. The buildings were uniformly white in colour and the hot morning sun bounced off their walls.

In the centre of the village was the well and as normal at this time of day it was a hive of activity as the women collected water for the day. Rhiannon stopped for a brief moment to take in the scene as she often did, but this morning the picture was different. There was a strange sense of tension hanging around the village. The women seemed to have no time to chat and gossip on their way to the well this morning and the beaming smiles that usually greeted her were absent, replaced by worried frowns. They walked quickly with their heads down and their eyes downcast as they glanced furtively from side to side, as if they thought they were being watched. In a village where the speed of life was sedate their scuttling and scurrying was disquieting. She walked slowly across the square unable to dismiss the unease she was feeling. She paused again at the entrance to the school, looking back up the street. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, as if everything was trapped in a vacuum. It was just too quiet. She shivered as a wave of coolness passed over her and goose pimples broke out on her skin. Her mother would say that somebody had walked on her grave.

Her unease growing, she walked up the steps and into the school.

"Senorita Phillips," Father Raoul called to her as she walked in." Where is Senor Roberts today?"

"He has taken a team to San Jose. The clinic will be doing vaccinations there today. Can I help at all Father?"

"I just wanted to explain to him that it would be best if the aid workers stayed inside the school today with the children. I have heard that men from villages further north will come to trade."

"To trade, with people here in the village? It is not market day, I passed no stalls."

"No they don't trade with people in the village. They meet here and trade with each other." The young priest looked scared.

"Father Raoul if they are not trading with the people here, why do they use this village?"

"It is convenient."

"Convenient for whom, Father?"

"Everybody involved. It started before my time; if the village objected to them meeting here there would be repercussions. Please ask no questions, just stay in the school."

Rhiannon studied the young priest, she guessed that there was a lot more that he could be saying, but for some reason he didn't. Instinct made her think that it was for her own protection. She'd been in enough trouble spots in the world to listen when the local people gave her advice.

"Ok Father I'll keep the other workers in the school today. There is only Senorita Alex."

"Thank you Senorita Philips. It would be best if the lessons were in the classroom on the north side, don't use the room on the south side, the one that overlooks the square. I… wouldn't …it is a better… better if the children do not see the traders." Rhiannon noticed the young priest was trembling; he was scared, of that there was no doubt.

She nodded and headed towards the classroom pondering the Father's words. She wasn't a fool, whatever was being traded was illegal and here in Colombia that probably meant guns, drugs or both. It was typical that James who was in charge of the Oxfam team in the village should be away today. The decisions about what to do rested with her. If she had learned anything during her earlier work for OXFAM it was that normal rules of law did not apply in many places.

She opened the door and smiled. Alex was already there supervising the children who had already arrived, children, she noted, who were as sedate as their mothers had been.

"Father Raoul said we had to use this room today, Rhiannon."

"Yes he told me on the way in." She closed the door and walked to a desk at the front.

"Rhiannon, the children seem very subdued has somebody in the village died?" Alex asked quietly.

"Nobody has died but they are scared about some men who are coming to the village today. I wish James was here but as he isn't we best do as Father Raoul suggests. And Alex, if I tell you to go and hide, you do it no questions asked. As a European aid worker you are vulnerable. Do you understand?"

"Who are these men?"

"N___arcotraficantes." Both women turned at the young voice. "Mucho malo hombres."_

_"__Narcotraficantes does that mean drug…?" Alex began._

_"__Philippe go and sit down please," Rhiannon said._

_"__Si, Senorita." _

_"__Alex, I suspect that this does have something to with drugs, but we should try not to scare the children."_

_"__You mean we say nothing and do nothing?"_

_"__For now, yes. There are no police here. Alex, the locals are scared. From the little Father Raoul said they have to agree to this or there are repercussions in the village. Read between the lines Alex, that means deaths. So we do what Father Raoul asks of us, ok?"_

_"__Ok."_

___Realising that the younger girl was terrified Rhiannon put a comforting arm around her shoulders._

_"__Come on let's get the children doing some activities. Take everybody's minds off what is happening in the village."_

___Later she would swear it happened in slow motion, and when she was plagued by nightmares that ravaged her sleep, she would recall it frame by frame. They spent most of the morning painting even though the children's hearts weren't really in it. It was just after eleven when they heard Father Raoul's voice shouting. The Spanish was spoken very rapidly and she could barely make out what they were saying. Another heated exchange followed with the man demanding to know where the British aid workers were. Father Raoul seemed to be denying there were any aid workers_

_"__Alex, do you remember where Jamie hid last week, under the stage?" The girl nodded. "I want you to hide there and no matter what happens you do not come out until either James or I tell you to."_

_"__James isn't here." Alex whispered._

_"__No I know but he will be back later. Please Alex, do as I say."_

_"__What about you?"_

_"__Somebody has to stay with the children. Go now."_

___Rhiannon watched as the young girl undid the trapdoor on the stage and slipped below it. _

___Seconds later the door to the room crashed open and Father Raoul stumbled through, followed by a man carrying a gun. The terrified children started to scream. Instinctively Rhiannon moved towards them. _

___The man spoke rapidly in Spanish to Father Raoul before turning to Rhiannon demanding she shut the children up._

_"__It's because you are pushing the priest and have a gun they are scared, that's why they are screaming." Rhiannon said, as she tried to comfort the children._

_"__If you don't silence them I will, permanently."_

_"__For God sake, they are just children."_

_"__Yes children who need to learn their place. Silencio." He roared the word so loudly that the screaming and crying became worse. _

___The shot came out of nowhere and that was when the impression of everything happening in slow motion started. The noise seemed to echo off the walls shattering the noise of the children crying. Rhiannon went hot, and then stone cold as she watched in horror as a patch of blood grew on young Philippe's chest. The impact of the bullet causing him to stagger backwards before his body seemed to just crumple. With her scream of 'No' echoing around the room Rhiannon moved to catch him, but his small body hit the floor before she could reach him. As she scooped him up against her she became aware of a roaring in her ears. She could no longer hear screaming just the sound of blood rushing in her head. She shook it both to clear the sound and as a denial over what had happened. She became aware of how quiet the room had gone. The gun had silenced the children's screams instantly._

___Her arms cradled the young boy close. Blood, there was so much blood; it was soaking into her clothes and covering her hands. She couldn't stop it flowing. Philippe's body was still warm, but she was certain he was dead; he probably had been since the bullet entered his tiny body. Her hand trembled as it moved to where the pulse should beat at his neck only to fall away when she realised there was none. _

___Her tear soaked face was turning towards the man the question 'Why?" forming on her lips, when she realised that Father Raoul was praying._

_"__You lied to me Father. You should say the prayers for yourself." Although the man spoke in Spanish this time Rhiannon understood every word. Even before he had finished speaking he was aiming the gun and a second later he pulled the trigger. Though it was the second gunshot the sound was no less shocking. This time the bullet time did not enter chest but the head. A spray of blood covered the wall before the priest fell lifeless to the floor. _

_"__Where are the other workers?" the man demanded, as he grabbed her by the hair and forced her to her knees_

_"__They are not here, some are out at a clinic treating the sick and the others are building a school in another village. There's only me here." Rhiannon's voice was broken by sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. _

___The man smiled._

_"__Maybe when they find your body they will heed the warning and go home."_

___How many villagers would die after they had killed her she wondered? How many more children? There had to be something she could do to spare them that fate. _

___Trembling from head to foot she watched as the gun arced towards her._

_"__I'm worth more to you alive, much more."_

___The man paused._

_"__I'm talking millions; whoever it is you work for won't be pleased if you kill me. Not when they find out who my father is."_

_"__Explain?"_

_"__My father is Simon Clarendon… the British Prime Minister."_

___He studied her for a moment._

_"__If you are lying you are just delaying the inevitable."_

_"__I'm not lying. If you demand a ransom for me you'll see I'm not lying. Take me to your headquarters, all I ask is that you leave the villagers alone."_

___The man looked at her carefully._

_"__You'd best move then." He gestured towards the door with the gun._

___Alex lay on her side trembling. The darkness under the wooden stage was oppressive and the air stale. Silent tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. The shock of hearing the sound of the gun fire and Rhiannon's cry of agony had caused her to vomit. Something terrible must have happen because the children had lapsed into stunned silence. It was the noise of the second gunshot followed by the sound of a heavy body falling that had made her cry, the hot tears she had tried to hide spilled over her lashes. She had bitten down on the cotton scarf at her neck in an attempt to silence her sobs, frightened that the man might hear them and discover her hiding place. At first she had thought that it was Rhiannon who had been shot but then she heard her speak. Her relief at her words had been short lived as she realised that Rhiannon was offering herself as a hostage. In her head she was screaming at her not to do it. Then it had gone silent._

___How long had it been since Rhiannon had gone she wondered? Time moved so slowly. How long should she stay hidden? Rhiannon had told her to stay until James came back but that might be hours. Her muscles were cramped from lying still and for the first time since she had arrived in Colombia she was cold. Rolling on to her tummy, she moved forward slowly until she had reached the front of the stage. Pressing her eye to the crack in between the wooden planks Alex finally understood what had happened in the hall. She backed away as the full horror of it hit her. She went dizzy and the blackness swallowed her._

___She didn't know how long she was unconscious. She dreamt about her Dad, he came to rescue her, parachuting down into the village like some Hollywood hero, big strong and invincible. He'd held her like he had when she was a child snuggled against his chest his hand brushing her hair and for a while he had been her soldier Dad again with no flaws._

___She was woken by the sound of a woman crying, no wailing. She didn't want to look at the scene in the hall again, but she had to see if James were back. Taking a deep breath she moved forward again and peered through the crack. Relief surged through her at the sight of James and Maggie. James had his arm round Maggie who was sobbing softly. Another aid worker was trying to comfort one of the local women, probably the mother of the child she had seen dead on the floor._

___Crawling back to the trap door she pushed it opened and ignoring the pain in her cramped muscles stood up._

_"__Can somebody help me please?"_

_"__My God, Alex is that you? Is Rhiannon with you?" James rushed over and lifted her from her hiding place._

_"__No James she's not here… She realised that the men had found out there were aid workers here… They were angry shouting at Father Raoul…" She broke down sobbing unrestrainedly._

___After a few minutes James spoke quietly._

_"__Alex, I know it's hard but what has happened to Rhiannon?"_

___She took a shuddering deep breath, trying to pull herself together._

_"__She made me hide. The gun man opened fire twice and then told her he was going to kill her. James she's done something completely mad. I thought he had shot her and then I heard her talking to him… the gunman, I mean. She told them her father is the Prime Minister. I think she did it to get the men away from the village." _

_"__She told them she was the PM's daughter?_

_"__Yes, it's why they didn't kill her I think."_

_"__Maggie, take care of Alex, I need to go and find out what is taking the foreign office so long and update them."_

___MI6 Headquarters Section Twenty_

___Layla glanced up, annoyed at the interruption of her phone. She picked up the receiver but before she could speak the voice on the other issued an order. _

_"__Lieutenant Thompson, my office now."_

___As was her habit she walked briskly to Major Pemberton's office. Along with the others on section twenty, she was still coming to terms to working with a new senior officer. He was very different to Collinson who had been urban and sophisticated; in comparison Pemberton was a no nonsense Scotsman, a man of few words and no frills. She paused at his door, his tone had been brusque even by his standard and she sensed that something was seriously wrong. Bracing herself for whatever it was, she knocked sharply at the door._

_"__Lieutenant, I believe you know Sir James Middleton."_

_"__Yes sir I do."_

_"__Have a seat Lieutenant." Pemberton paused and pushed a photograph across the desk. "Rhiannon Phillips, a British aid worker with Oxfam, she has been kidnapped in Colombia." He pushed another photograph across the table. "She was working in a small village over there. A local Priest and a child were murdered at the time of her kidnapping."_

___The picture was shocking and Layla not for the first time was glad that it would never be displayed in the public domain._

_"__Has there been a ransom demand?"_

_"__Not yet. There is a twist in the tale however. An eye witness to the kidnapping has informed us that Miss Phillips told the gunman that she was the Prime Minister's daughter. He is being informed of this as we speak."_

_"__What was she doing saying that, trying to buy herself time?"_

_"__The eye witness thought she was trying to get the gun man away from the village. It seems that a group of drug traffickers were using the village as a drop site. The problem is it may not be an elaborate lie. There was a rumour circulating a month ago that the PM had a daughter he had never seen. Rhiannon Phillips is that girl." _

_"__My God if it is true…"_

_"__Well quite."_

_"__Was the eye witness a local? Could they have been mistaken in what they think she said?"_

___Sir James spoke for the first time._

_"__The witness is another aid worker. Just a kid really, Alexandra Porter, it is her first trip with Oxfam."_

_"__Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t."_

_"__Lieutenant, watch the language. I know it is a problem but that won't help, " Sir James commented._

_"__No Sir I apologise. But Alexandra Porter, it can be no coincident, and in fact I know it isn't."_

_"__John Porter's daughter?" Pemberton asked._

_"__Yes Sir, she is spending a gap year working for Oxfam and I know she is in Colombia."_

_"__I haven't seen her since she was a little girl. Is this her?" He pushed another photograph across the table._

___A pretty young woman smiled up from the photograph._

_"__Yes Sir it's her."_

_"__Where is Sergeant Porter this morning? I don't want him seeing this on the news."_

_"__He was in his office ten minutes ago. It is his first morning back following his leave."_

___Pemberton picked up the phone and issued the same order that he had to the Lieutenant. A few moments later John Porter entered the office._

_"__Porter, have a seat. Firstly I want you to understand that Alexandra is alright."_

_"__Alex?"_

_"__An aid worker in Colombia has been kidnapped, but it isn't Alex. Alex is safe."_

___John took a calming breath, his blood felt as though it had frozen in his veins._

_"__Was she caught up in it, has she been hurt?"_

_"__No she is unharmed, but she did witness it. Thanks to her we have vital intel about the kidnapping."_

_"__When can I speak to her. I need to speak to her." John demanded._

_"__We will arrange it ASAP, we have only just realised who she was." Pemberton explained._

_"__The person who was kidnapped any word on them?"_

_"__Not yet, but Alex heard her tell the gunman she was the PM's daughter." _

_"__Sh*t, is it true?"_

_"__We are waiting to find out. I want you both on stand-by. Lieutenant, set up a link so Porter can speak to his daughter."_

_"__Yes Sir." She paused at the door. "Come on John lets phone your daughter."_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six.

John realised he was being unreasonable, but it didn't make a damned bit of difference; he still snarled like a caged tiger at everybody who came within 50 yards of him. Following a couple of heated exchanges, people kept their distance. His frustration at the delay in getting the video link set up was threatening to erupt in an explosion of anger the likes of which Section Twenty had neither seen nor heard.

The last time he had experienced anger like this had been years ago in Kenneth Bratton's company headquarters. After he had been discharged from the Army on medical grounds, he had gone and begged for a job, naïvely believing that because he had saved the man's life he would be given a decent job. What a fool he'd been! The humiliation he'd felt when Bratton had said his employees were qualified was what had fuelled his anger. In the reception area he had picked up a modern sculpture and hurled it through a window. He still recalled the satisfaction he had felt at the sound of the glass shattering. Security had come running, but whether it was his threatening to take them down or Bratton's shake of the head, they had backed off quickly. He'd shocked himself with his outburst as he didn't lose his temper often; a soldier who couldn't control his anger was of no use to the Army.

He glanced at his watch again. What was taking so long? His fingers curled into a fist and he paced up down, desperately trying to control the urge to plant his newly formed fist into a wall or somebody's face. At the pressure of a hand on his arm, he whirled around, ready to lash out at whoever had touched him.

It was Layla. He took a calming breath. God, if he'd hit her he could really have hurt her. He took another deep breath and shook his head as if to clear it.

"John, here. Take this," Layla said, handing him a mug of strong black coffee. "If nothing else, it will give you something to do with your hands other than hit some poor sod who gets too close."

"Thanks, Layla. How much longer will the techno geeks be?"

"It won't be much longer, I promise. You should be able to talk to her in about fifteen minutes or so."

"We need to get her out of there, Layla. If they realise there was an eye witness…." He broke off, unable to continue.

"I know that, John. We are arranging to bring her home. She is in protective custody in Bogota. We will get her home." Layla touched his arm briefly. "In the meantime, I thought you would like to know that Katie Dartmouth is on her way in."

"Katie's on her way here? Why?"

"It turns out that she was the journalist who broke the news about the PM having fathered a child while he was at university."

"Did she meet the girl?"

"She is not a girl as such, John. She is twenty eight." Layla smiled.

"Oh, right, I thought she was Alex's age. Did Katie meet her?"

"Yes, and her mother. It'll be interesting to see what Katie thinks. When the story broke, the rumours were very firmly denied. "

"What, by the girl?"

"Her name is Rhiannon, and no, they were not denied by her. She left the country the day the news broke. Her mother and the PM denied it.

John nodded.

"I'd like to be on any discussion with Katie. OK, Layla?

"That goes without question."

One of the techno geeks approached. "Lieutenant, we are ready for you."

"OK, thanks. John, give me five minutes to speak with the embassy and set things up. You can take the call in my office, OK?"

"Yeah, that's fine. Thanks, Layla. I know that I have been a complete son of a bitch for the last hour."

"What, only for the last hour, Sergeant? No, you have been a son of bitch since I met you." She winked as she turned away.

**********

He was glad that Layla had arranged for him to take the video call alone. He was shaking badly as he watched his daughter's image on the screen, and he wouldn't have wanted anyone to have seen him. An intense pain burned a hole in his gut and acid churned in his stomach. He felt so damned useless just as he had when he had spoken to her via video link when her mother had died. Her face was pale and dark smudges were visible below her eyes-eyes which were so similar to his own. He wondered if his had ever mirrored his feelings as plainly as his daughter's did. All her emotions were laid bare. He reached towards the screen with a single finger and traced her cheek as if to brush her tears away. How he wished he really could brush them away.

"It was so awful-poor Father Raoul and little Philippe. When I peered through the crack in the stage, I didn't know what to expect. There was just so much blood. I'm not used to seeing blood, and it made me puke. Shit, I never told them about the puke. It will still be under the stage." She looked around as if to tell somebody. "The blood, it seemed like it was everywhere, pooled on the floor and sprayed on the walls. Some of the kids had droplets on them and I just left them alone in that room. I stayed hidden, cowering in the dark. Actually, I think I passed out. You must think me a coward."

John shook his head as he thought of the times he had been covered in other people's blood. The first time it happened, he'd puked as well and he'd thought he would never be clean. It was strange how he had become desensitised. Blood and guts were part of the job for him, but not for his daughter.

"No, sweetheart, of course I don't think you are a coward." God, how he wanted to hold his daughter, wrap his arms around her and make her pain go away. The pain in his gut intensified as his frustration grew.

"When I close my eyes, I see Philippe. I mean, he was just a baby, dad, eight years old, why did he have to die? What kind of world is it when little kids are murdered?" Tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

"Hush, baby. There is no reason for killing a child; you will go mad looking for one. Men like that don't have to have a reason."

She sniffed. "I know. I'm scared, Dad, really scared. I am in protective custody with a bodyguard because of what I heard. The room I'm in doesn't even have a window. Every little sound makes me jump like a spooked rabbit. I can't go out, not even into the garden. I wasn't really scared until they kept me from going into the garden. They think I'm in danger. That didn't occur to me until I was brought here."

"I know you're scared, sweetheart. But, Alex, it's going to be alright. We will get you home very soon. The people I work for are sorting it out."

"That's good, I want to come home. But that's not the worst thing. Here I am whining about being cooped up in my room, but what about Rhiannon? Nobody knows where she is. She made me hide and then gave herself up to stop the killings. What will they do when they realise she lied to them? That's why they killed Father Raoul, because he lied."

"Lied about what?"

"He lied about us, the British aid workers. He told them there were none. The man who killed them came into the hall after I'd hidden and he opened fire. Rhiannon and I were at the village alone; the others had gone to another village. Rhiannon was second in charge and she is my mentor. She showed me the ropes, what to do and not do when we arrived. I know that they told her to do that, but she is more than somebody I work with. She has become my friend."

"She sounds great, Alex." John half smiled, remembering how he had been a similar friend to Steve. He'd been appointed the younger man's mentor and had ended up his mate.

"She is lovely, Dad, just a really good person. She doesn't have a bad bone in her body. I have never known anybody who was so good and fun at the same time. She just wanted to help these people. When those men find out what she has done, they'll kill her. They probably already have."

"Hush, I know it's hard, but hang in there, there are people already looking for her."

"It is the kind of thing you do, isn't it, Dad? Rescue people like Rhiannon?"

"I guess you could say that," John said, wondering where his daughter was going with this conversation.

"Will you rescue her?"

"I don't know. Even if I did, I couldn't tell you, sweetheart. Why do you ask?"

"Because Rhiannon deserves the best. When I was little, you were the best soldier in the world. I'm sure that hasn't changed," she whispered.

His heart shattered. Just the sound of those words brought back so many memories. How many times had she told him, 'you're the best soldier in the world, Daddy'? It was her catchphrase when he had to go on a mission. "I know you have to go, Daddy, because you are the best soldier in the world." It had been years since she'd said it, but the years fell away. All the pain, hurt, anger, and recrimination were gone like a puff of smoke in the wind and she was his daughter again.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, he touched the screen once more.

"I can't promise it will be me who goes to rescue her, but whatever I can do, I will. So you hang in there, OK, Alex?"

"Yeah, OK, Dad." She tried to smile, but it didn't really come off. Instead, she brought two fingers to her lips and leant forward to touch the screen where his lips were. "I know I can be a brat, Dad, but I do love you."

Overcome with emotion, he could barely get his words out. "I love you too, sweetheart. Now, you stay brave and we'll soon have you home." He returned the kiss before she reached forward and switched off the monitor.

He sat staring, unseeing, at the computer screen for a long time, lost in his thoughts. His eyes were bright with unshed tears and his throat felt raw with emotion. Not for the first time, he was glad that Layla had left him alone.

A small tap on the door before it was pushed opened had him rubbing at his eyes trying to get rid of the evidence of his emotions.

"John?"

He turned sharply at the softly lilting voice. It was Katie. He could have pretended that he was alright with the others, but not with her; they had shared too much. The tears spilled over his lashes and a shuddering sob ripped through his body.

Katie moved in front of him and placed her arms around his shoulders; her good hand stroked his hair. She sighed when she felt his arms slip around her waist as he leant against her. She didn't speak; she didn't need to. Words were not what he needed. Just for once, this strongly independent man needed to be held, to be supported instead of being the person holding and supporting.

For five minutes, he gave way to his feelings. It felt so good to lean on somebody for a while. But then his practical nature kicked in, and he pulled away. Because it was Katie, he wasn't embarrassed by his tears, but merely brushed them away.

"Thanks, Katie."

"That's okay. Lieutenant Thompson thought you might like to see me."

John smiled.

"That's our Layla, she's a perceptive lass."

"Is she okay? Your daughter, I mean."

"Not really. She is scared shitless, racked with guilt and worried sick about this aid worker who has been kidnapped. Rhiannon, is it?"

"Yes, Rhiannon Philips."

"Is there any truth in what she told them?"

"Come into the conference room and look at the photographs. I think you'll see that they speak for themselves."

"Okay, give me five minutes and I'll join you."

*******

Colombia

Rhiannon was beyond scared. Any feelings that she had felt had long since evaporated. She was just numb. From the moment they had bound her wrists and ankles, gagged, blind folded, and dumped her in the boot of the car, she'd frozen emotionally. Nausea washed over her and her head ached. The fumes from the exhaust were overwhelming; their acrid odour penetrated through every pore of her body. If she could have breathed through her mouth, it might have helped. She remembered reading somewhere that breathing through the mouth cut down on the sense of smell, but her gag was secured tightly, cutting into her face. She had tried to turn over, so that her face would be against the opening of the boot, but there was no space to move.

It was impossible to tell where the car was heading, but Rhiannon didn't think they were heading into the city. The terrain was rough and uneven; every bump or pothole in the road threw her against the side of the boot. She wasn't sure how long they'd been travelling, an hour, maybe two? Lying in the dark, cramped space, time had lost meaning. But however long it had been, she reasoned that if they were heading to Bogotá, they would be on a highway by now. Were they heading to the mountains or the sea? If she could have laughed at this thought, she would have; it sounded like she was on a mystery tour or surprise holiday. What did it matter where they were going? She was certain to be killed when they arrived at their destination.

That didn't matter, though. At least by saying she was the Prime Minister's daughter, she had got the men away from the village and no one else had died. The other children were safe. When they had shot Father Raoul and forced her to her knees, instinct had taken over. She had told them she was the Prime Minister's daughter with no real thought of the consequences. The words had just slipped out. Had she been relieved that he'd believed her? Not for her own sake, but for the sake of the children; those innocent mites had witnessed enough death.

Had James returned by now, she wondered? If he had, then the authorities would have been alerted about her disappearance. Were they even now looking for her? And what of Alex, how was she? She hoped that the younger girl had stayed hidden. God, she hoped she hadn't somehow witnessed Philippe and Father Raoul being killed; no eighteen year old should witness that.

Would Alex have heard her tell her assailants who her father was? If so, had the authorities already told Simon Clarendon? She wondered what he would make of her declaration. And what of her mother. Had she been told yet? It had been just the two of them for so long that Rhiannon dreaded to think how she would cope with the news. Would she meet with Simon, and somehow share the burden of her kidnapping with him?

She wanted her mother. Was that a sign of fear? Probably, but she would have given anything to touch her mother's hand, see her soft smile, and hear the soothing lilt of her Welsh tones. There was so much she still wanted to share with her mother, so much she still wanted to do. An ache intensified in her chest that had nothing to do with the cramped conditions in the boot, and her body shook with sobs as the reality of her situation hit her. She thought of her father, and realised that her tears were for him as well; she regretted that she would never know him.

Pain screamed through her cramped muscles and burned at her joints. The binds at her wrist and ankles, like the gag on her face, bit into her flesh. They served as a harsh reminder, as if she needed one, that this was no nightmare.

The car began to slow and Rhiannon realised that they were climbing. The road must be steep because the car seemed to groan at the strain of going uphill. Did this mean that they were heading into the mountains? Suddenly, the car lurched and swung, as if turning a sharp bend in the road. She felt herself roll in the cramped space, her knee colliding with a piece of metal that protruded, causing pain to shoot through her and a muffled groan to escape her lips. The car swung sharply again, and Rhiannon was tossed the other way. Her head slammed against the side of the boot and a wet patch grew on the blindfold. As the sticky, sweet, rusty smell of it reached her nostrils, she lost consciousness.

*******

Conference Room Section Twenty MI6

As far as John could see, there seemed little doubt from the photographic evidence that Simon Clarendon and Rhiannon Phillips were, at the least, if not father and daughter, then related. The resemblance was uncanny, especially the eyes and nose.

"She certainly looks like him," he commented.

"A picture is worth a thousand words. So how come when this story broke, this picture was not splashed everywhere?" Layla asked Katie Dartmouth.

"High court injunction; the judge ruled that to publish it would undermine Clarendon's election campaign. The election being so close, all the wrangling and political manoeuvring meant that the story had to be put on the backburner, so to speak."

"You've met her, Katie. Is it truth or rumours?" John asked.

"I would say it is truth. There was something about Rose Philips' demeanour when I asked her about it. She was far too defensive, and she made damned sure I spent no time with her daughter."

"Has she been told yet?" John asked.

"That is being done now." Layla said.

John nodded, acutely aware how the woman would feel when she heard the news.

"Is there any response from number ten yet?" He glanced at Pemberton.

"Sir James has just been called over so I'm expecting developments and orders at any moment," Pemberton said. "I think we will be asked to go in and extract the women, whether the story is true or not. If Number Ten denies she is the PM's daughter, it will be as good as signing her death warrant."

John nodded.

"Miss Dartmouth, what can you tell us about Rhiannon Phillips?" Major Pemberton turned his attention to the journalist.

"She is twenty-eight years old. Her childhood was spent with her mother. No siblings. She was a good student at school, graduating from Bath with a 2:1 in modern languages. She went to work for Oxfam immediately. Over the years, she has worked in some of the world's worst areas of poverty. These areas have known more than their share of political troubles. I got the impression from her colleagues that she was very savvy about working in troubled spots. She probably thought that Colombia would be quiet after the places she's been. She is popular with her co-workers. None of them was prepared to comment about her at all when the story came out. Now, that's unusual; most people don't inspire such loyalty."

"Is there any boyfriend on the scene?" John asked.

"Nobody serious, from what I could find out."

"What about a girlfriend?"

"No, as far as I know she's heterosexual. May I ask what Alex's impression of her was?"

"What makes you think I asked her?"

"Because I know you would have thought it important." Katie smiled.

"Alex did say that she is second in charge, so I had already guessed she was experienced. She also told me was really good-morally I think she meant. I think we can add in brave as well as resourceful." John said.

"Yeah, it's kept her alive. I guess we have to hope she is lucky as well. Miss Dartmouth, I thank you for your time and insight." Pemberton gestured towards the door.

"Ah, the rest is private, I guess." Katie stood, but before leaving she stopped at Porter's side and brushed a kiss against his cheek.

"John, you take care in Colombia, do you hear?"

"If I go, I'll take care. I'll call you, okay?"

She smiled and said goodbye.

Pemberton waited until the door closed.

"Sergeant, what exactly is the nature of your relationship with Miss Dartmouth?

"Relationship? I don't have a relationship with her. I saved her life in Iraq. We became friends, nothing more.

"And what things do you tell this friend? Bearing in mind that she is an award winning journalist."

"Hard as it may be for you to believe, I not only don't sleep with her, I don't talk about work with her either."

"Explain something then. How did she know you'd be going to Colombia?"

"Well, as this is the first I've heard about my going to Colombia, it must have been from you…" he paused. "Or, as she's an award-winning journalist maybe the clever girl worked it out for herself."

"Don't be a smartass, Sergeant."

"Then, respectfully sir, don't be an idiot. When I was in the Regiment was I a blabbermouth?"

"Point taken, I apologise, Porter."

"Apology accepted, Sir." Porter nodded as he spoke.

"Miss Dartmouth is right, though; we need to get you into you to Colombia." The phone rang at Pemberton's side. He picked it up and listened before replacing the receiver.

"That was Sir James; I have been summoned to Number Ten."

Welcome to Section Twenty. You are getting a hell of an introduction to the job, Sir," John said dryly.


	7. Chapter 7

My thanks to my wonderful Betas comments welcome.

Chapter Seven

John rubbed his eyes wearily. He'd been studying the map intently for more than an hour, and the words and symbols were beginning to merge. However, he was getting a feel for the area from which Rhiannon Philips had been taken. The village of San Paulo was one of several, about seventy klicks east of the Colombian capital of Bogotá, where tributaries of the Bogotá River crisscrossed the plateau to form fertile valleys and where people had settled. This was the Andean part of the country. Altitude might be a problem; Bogotá was 2,625 meters above sea level. But he normally acclimatised quickly so he should be okay. He'd have to be, he thought wryly.

He frowned; where the kidnappers went after they left the village was anybody's guess. The whole area was dominated by the Cordilleras, a range of mountains that formed a part of the Andes. They could have a stronghold in one of the more remote villages higher up in the mountains, but it was equally possible that they would make for the Caribbean coast. They might possibly have headed for one of the major ports like Cartagena or Barranquilla, especially if they had drugs to get out of the country. They might have contacts in the Caribbean Islands or Central America who couldn't be kept waiting. John's eyes drifted across the map and rested on the word Bogotá and he wondered if they would they make for the capital. Sometimes it was easier to hide in a city.

The kidnappers would have to think on their feet. From what little Alex had told him, it was obvious that they had not planned to take anybody hostage. So whatever they did next had to fit in with their original plans. His biggest concern was that, having taken Rhiannon away from the village, they would decide taking her hostage was too big a risk and kill her.

He sighed again. He was going to need some inside information about the area and what drug cartels operated there. Common sense told him they would have to approach the Americans for intelligence in the area. He shivered slightly. He was apprehensive at the thought of having to work with the Americans. He had until recently been on their most wanted list.

Deciding it was time to share his thoughts with somebody, he stood and walked towards Layla's office. Her door was open and she waved him in.

"Is the Major back from Number Ten yet?" he asked, perching on the edge of her desk.

"No not yet," she replied.

John looked at the page she was reading on the internet. It was about the DEA's activity in Colombia.

"I see you're thinking like me. We are going to have to work with the Americans on this one."

"Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? They have the most inside knowledge about the Colombian drug trade."

"Yes, they do. Have you requested their help yet?

"Yes, they are sending over an agent…" Layla paused.

"Layla, what is it?" John watched as she bit her bottom lip.

"They are sending over Frank Arlington; he is their special liaison officer in London."

"And, judging by your tone, you don't like this man, do you? Have you worked with him before?"

"He is the agent we dealt with during the Gerald Baxter extraction. Collinson let him strut about like he owned the place. It was pathetic how he just acceded to every demand that Arlington made."

"So, Collinson's attitude was what has coloured your opinion of Arlington?"

"No, I'd dislike the man anyway and he…" Layla broke off.

"What aren't you telling me, Layla?"

"While you were in Afghanistan extracting Baxter, he was the agent for the United States doing deals with Zahar Sharq. John, you need to know that he is the man who ordered the American Special Forces to take out Baxter and yourself."

John nodded. "And I'm guessing he was the person who ordered Sharq to ambush Collinson and myself."

"Well, we've no proof, but yes you can bet he did. He is a calculating bastard, John."

Porter smiled wryly. "I wonder, do you think when he meets me he will want to continue our - 'special relationship' -?"

"Well, we're about to find out. He's in the reception giving Louisa a hard time."

John turned slightly and studied the man in reception. If ever a man had an air of self-importance, it was Arlington. It was obvious from the way he stood looking down his nose and gazing impatiently around the reception area that he considered himself vastly superior to anybody in MI6. He was sharply dressed, his clothing impeccably tailored and his hair expertly styled.

"He looks like an ad for some male grooming product." John ran his hand through his hair. "You know the ones I mean –'because you're worth it.'"

Layla giggled at his exaggerated American accent. "You don't use grooming products then, John?"

John's eyebrows raised in mock horror. "Me, use grooming products! I'd get laughed out of The Special Forces. Besides, the kit bag isn't equipped to carry moisturisers and hair gel. Good old fashioned soap and water is good enough for The British 'Tommy,' Layla lass." The accent went from west coast movie star American to Rochdale, England.

Layla smiled. John Porter wouldn't use and didn't need any grooming products. Her smile widened as she remembered how she'd nearly swallowed her tongue when he'd reported to Hereford following his reactivation into the service. Gone was the shaggy mane of hair; in its place was a short, sharp, no nonsense style that suited both his face and character.

"Would you care to share the secret that is making you smile, Lieutenant?" John asked.

"Nope, you're big headed enough as it is, Sergeant, without me feeding your ego."

John laughed. God, Layla was sharp.

"I'd best go and rescue Louisa from Arlington, though if I know him, he's going to be less than impressed at having to deal with me. If you go to conference room A, we'll join you there," Layla told him.

"Okay. Layla, you do realise that I have to walk through reception to get to Room A, don't you?"

"Yes, and I will be watching you every step of the way."

"Lieutenant, this thing you have for looking at my butt…" he teased.

"You fool, I want to see how Arlington reacts when you walk through reception. I am counting on Louisa asking you where Pemberton is. When she does, she will call you by your name. I've a hunch your presence is going to really piss Arlington off."

"Well, if it does, we are even, because his presence pisses me off." John grinned as he opened the door. "See you in five minutes."

Arlington was sat impatiently flicking through a magazine. John smiled; the American was obviously not happy about being kept waiting.

As Layla had predicted, Louisa spoke to him the moment he entered the reception area, saying "Sergeant Porter, do you know when Major Pemberton is expected back?"

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw recognition dawn on Arlington as he looked up to see who had entered and if they were important. John watched in silent amusement as the colour drained from the American's face.

Didn't think you'd have to meet me face to face, did you mate, John silently taunted, his face impassive.

Careful not to show any hint of recognition, John walked up to the desk and smiled at the receptionist.

"No, I haven't, but you know what these meetings at Whitehall can be like- they can drag on for hours. Lieutenant Thompson is around if there is a problem…" He turned and looked at Frank Arlington pointedly.

"Thank you, Sir." The receptionist looked worried.

"Louisa, it is Louisa isn't it?" John asked. The young receptionist nodded. "I was away on a mission when you were appointed, so you don't know, but I like my friends to call me John." He wasn't sure if the receptionist had picked up the emphasis on the word friend but he knew Arlington had.

He smiled at the receptionist before he continued to walk towards the conference room.

As promised, it was less than five minutes before Layla and Arlington entered the conference room. He heard them before he saw them because Arlington was mouthing off about wanting to be treated with a little more courtesy.

"Mr. Arlington, have a seat, please. I understand that you know Sergeant Porter?" Layla asked over Arlington's complaining.

Arlington stopped speaking abruptly and looked at Porter, who was leaning against the wall, his arms folded.

"No, I've never met Sergeant Porter."

"I didn't say you had met him, I asked if you knew him," Layla said coldly.

"Lieutenant, how would I know him if I haven't met him?" A smug smile flitted across Arlington's face.

"Well, I thought you'd remember the name of the British soldier whom you ordered assassinated by American Special Forces operatives in Afghanistan."

Arlington's lips thinned and a white outline appeared around them, an indication of how angry he was.

"Lieutenant, be careful what you accuse me of," he said coldly.

Layla tilted her head to one side and considered the man in front of her.

"Do I need to be careful when I accuse you of doing a deal with Sharq, which involved providing him with classified information in return for killing Porter and Gerald Baxter? Or perhaps it is your part in the killing of Major Collinson that I need to be careful about?"

"How dare you imply that I would order the killing of allied soldiers?" Arlington hissed, his fury barely contained.

"I wasn't implying anything, Mr. Arlington. I was accusing you, and not without proof. Let's not pretend that we don't all know what you are and what you did."

"Why, you little bitch, who the f*ck do you think you are?"

Porter moved forward, but Layla stopped him, her hand raised. She moved forward and put her own face inches from Arlington's.

"I am the officer you are going to have to deal with until Major Pemberton returns. You need to understand that means treating me and the people here with respect. Quite frankly, you give Americans a bad name, but I have to work with you. Now, we have a situation in Colombia and we would like any information you have about the drug cartels known to be operating in and around the Sabana of Bogota."

"Colombian Drug Cartels are a U.S. concern, not a British government concern. So, my advice is that you leave it to the big boys."

"The situation involves a British national, so that makes it the British government's concern. Quite frankly, what the PM will want and expect is your total co-operation in this matter. A British female aid worker has been kidnapped. No demand has been made as of yet, but we suspect that is because they have not realised that there was a witness to the kidnapping."

"So, some stupid tart gets taken hostage and we have to go in and bail her out. Jesus, don't you even give them training?"

Porter moved so quickly that neither Layla nor Arlington had time to react. Grabbing the American by his suit lapels, he pinned him against the wall. "Shut up and listen you bastard. Firstly, that 'tart' happens to be a highly experienced Oxfam aid worker; secondly she appears to have let herself be kidnapped to prevent the killing of twenty local children, and thirdly…"

"And thirdly," a voice from the door spoke quietly. "She happens to be my daughter, but even if she wasn't, she is British Citizen, not a tart. You will never call another British Citizen a tart, Mr. …"

"Arlington, Sir," Porter said helpfully.

"Mr. Arlington, do I make myself clear or do I have to speak to your superiors?"

"No, Mr. Prime Minster, Sir, you do not," Arlington said, his face crimson.

"Sergeant, I believe you can release Mr. Arlington," Major Pemberton said dryly.

Arlington shot John a look of pure loathing before he straightened his jacket and took a seat. "The woman who has been taken hostage is your daughter, Sir? I didn't realise you had an older daughter."

"No, neither did I. There were rumours a month ago, but they were denied by Rhiannon's mother. It seems she lied. It's a hell of a way to find out you have a daughter, being told she's been kidnapped."

John stood observing the Prime Minister, aware as only a father could be of the emotions that the man was dealing with. He watched as he swallowed hard, reigning in those emotions and taking back his control.

"Major Pemberton, let's get down to business shall we?" the Prime Minister said, taking a seat.

The car skidded to a standstill and, for what felt like the thousandth time, Rhiannon hit the side of the car. She moved her head and groaned softly; she had no idea whether she had been unconscious minutes or hours. Was this just a hold up on a road or had they reached their final destination, she wondered? The sound of the car doors being opened seemed to confirm that they had arrived.

Footsteps crunched on the ground. Her kidnappers were walking on gravel. Were they on a driveway? She could hear the muffled voices of men talking in Spanish. Were they talking about her? It was impossible to make out what they were saying. Perhaps they were discussing killing her. She broke out in a cold sweat; fear clasped at her heart, causing it to beat wildly, and the pounding sounded so loud to her ears that she felt certain the men outside the car must be able to hear it. She wondered whether it would be better to show how scared she was or to try and act defiantly. She wasn't sure she could act defiantly, but it would be nice to know which might work in her favour, It might make them think twice about killing her. Weeping wreck or cool customer?

Footsteps sounded on the ground, followed by the boot creaking open and warm sticky heat brushing her skin. Her breath caught in her throat and her muscles tightened. Suddenly with no warning a pair of hands grabbed her and lifted her roughly out of the car. The moment her feet touched the ground, her knees buckled as blinding pain shot through her muscles. Her hands were still tightly bound behind her back, so she fell helplessly to the floor, the sharp gravel biting into her knees.

"Stand up!" A voice commanded in Spanish and Rhiannon felt a hand shake her shoulder. When she didn't move, somebody pulled her to her feet, grabbing her tightly under her arm pit. The moment they let her go, however, and she tried to walk, she stumbled again. Her knees smarted as they smacked into the rough ground. Cursing, the man pulled her to her feet one more, but this time he did not let her go. Another man joined him and they dragged her across the gravel and up steps into a building.

"Untie her," a cultured voice commanded in Spanish.

Rhiannon felt hot tears of relief spike on her lashes as the bindings at her hands and feet were released, followed by the gag and finally the blindfold. The light, although dim in the hall, still seemed intense after being in darkness for hours. She blinked rapidly several times as her vision returned to normal and the room came into focus. You couldn't call it a room, really; it was a grand entrance hall, palatial almost, with floor to ceiling marble pillars and an immense sweeping staircase.

"Senorita Phillips welcome to Casa de Marguerita." The man looked as cultured as he sounded. Cultured, and with expensive tastes if his clothing was anything to go by. Rhiannon knew enough about fashion to recognise designer clothing when she saw it. He was probably in his late forties, but his hair was still thick and dark with just enough grey to make him look distinguished. He reached out and took her hand in his and raised it slowly to his lips. His touch made her skin crawl and nausea washed over her. She resisted the urge to pull it away; it was probably wise not to antagonise this man. It frightened her to realise that, had she not known what this man was, she'd have thought him charming and handsome. Looks were deceptive and it would be easy to be fooled by this man.

"I am Sebastian Cortez."

She stood silently, wondering what one did in a situation such as this. Did you shake hands, answer, smile, or break down? Oxfam didn't provide handy tips for kidnap victims.

She flinched slightly as Cortez reached over and touched her temple where a bruise was developing around the cut.

"Did one of my men do this?"

"No, it happened when I was in the boot of the car. I hit my head as we went round a sharp bend in the road." Rhiannon's voice was little more than a whisper.

He turned to face the men.

"Who put her in the boot of the car?" he asked in Spanish, his voice cold and devoid of emotion.

"Carlos said we should in case we were seen."

Cortez nodded, his gaze moving to the other man. "Imbecile, Miss Phillips is guest and now, thanks to you, she thinks I am a thug." As soon as he saw Cortes' hand move inside his jacket, the man Carlos began to run. But escape was futile. Cortes had drawn his weapon and shot Carlos before he hadtaken five paces.

She tried not to scream, but it was as futile as the man's running had been.

"Shush, my dear. I am sorry you had to witness that, but it was necessary. You are trembling, senorita. Alberto, take Miss Phillips to her room." He glanced at the other man before continuing "There is a bath there. Why don't you freshen up and sleep before joining me for dinner. Shall we say eight p.m.?"

She wanted to laugh. it was so ludicrous, it sounded as if he were inviting her on a date.

He took her silence for agreement. "Good, until tonight then, senorita." He kissed her hand once more before turning away.

Pemberton waited until Arlington and Layla had left the room. "Porter, can you work with the Americans?" Pemberton looked at the man opposite him.

"Yes Sir, I can."

"I have to question that, Sergeant. You had Arlington pinned to the wall."

"Arlington is a pri… I mean, a special case. He ordered his men to kill me."

"Well, that might cause problems, then," Pemberton replied.

"No, Sir, it won't. I can work with anyone as long as that person doesn't try to kill me. Then… well, it's every man for himself. To be honest, Sir, until the last mission, I got on well with the Americans I worked with. I don't think it will be a problem."

Pemberton nodded. "And what about Alex? She will leave Colombia as you arrive. How are you with that?"

"It is fine. Alex kind of gave me permission to rescue Miss Phillips."

"Who is Alex?" Simon Clarendon spoke for the first time since Frank Arlington had left.

"Alex Porter is the young aid worker who was with Miss Phillips when she was abducted," Major Pemberton explained.

"And Alex Porter is?" The Prime Minister looked at the SAS Sergeant.

"My daughter Sir. By some quirk of fate, she happened to be working there. She is our eyewitness, but more than that she was friends with your…"

"My daughter. You can say it, Sergeant Porter. How is it possible to feel all this wonder, love, anger, and pain over a person I don't even know?"

"I suppose, Sir, it is like when your child is placed in your arms for the first time. You are given this tiny stranger and in the space of a heartbeat, your life is never the same. The world and your place in it suddenly make perfect sense. You're a father and the fact that she is twenty-eight years old doesn't change that," John said quietly, thinking about his own daughter.

"I'm just so scared that I will never know her, never speak to her or touch her."

"Sir, there is a good chance we will find her. Porter is a …"

"Major Pemberton, exactly what experience has Sergeant Porter had in situations like this? No offense, Sergeant, you understand this is my daughter we are talking about."

"That's alright, none taken, Sir." Porter smiled, wondering what Pemberton was going to tell the PM.

"Sergeant Porter is a very experienced Special Forces Operative. His role in Section Twenty has meant in many cases he acted alone. You remember the Katie Dartmouth kidnapping?"

Simon Clarendon nodded.

"Well, Porter is the operative who rescued her." Pemberton said without elaborating.

"Okay, right, well that's good." Clarendon suddenly seemed at a loss for words.

"Sir, I can't promise I will get her back, but I can promise I will do my best." John said.

"Thank you, Sergeant Porter. I best get back to my wife. As you can imagine, this has been a terrible shock for her. And Rhiannon's mother will be arriving shortly and I should be there when she does. Not a situation I ever imagined I would be facing, my wife and my childhood girlfriend together in the same room. My weekly meeting with the Queen is less scary." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I will speak to you tomorrow, Sir," Pemberton said as he opened the door.

Layla entered the conference room almost as soon as the Prime Minister left.

"Is Arlington on his way back to Grosvenor Square?" Pemberton asked as she shut the door.

"Yes, Sir, he is going to alert a DEA contact in Bogotá named Sam Henderson. Our flight is booked for midnight and he will meet us at Eldorado airport."

"When will Alex be got out of the country?" John asked.

"She is leaving at 7 p.m. tonight. I have arranged for her to go to my parents' house. I hope that is alright, John? I didn't think she should be alone."

"It is fine. Thank you, Layla, that's very good of you and your parents."

"You're welcome. Here are your ticket and passport. You are James Kendal, a British teacher on holiday."

"Really, is that all? Not an arms dealer or drug lord?"

"That will change once we are in Bogotá. Arlington thinks the DEA will know who has snatched Miss Phillips before we take off. We can make more definite plans on the flight."

"Who are you going to be, Layla? My wife or my girlfriend?" he asked cheekily

"Ego again! Sergeant, you can wish, but I'm Sarah Chambers, a fellow teacher. That's all."

He sighed dramatically. "Oh, well, you're the boss. I guess this means we are off to Colombia. How is your Spanish, Layla?"


End file.
